


For You, Eternity

by Gerec, lachatblanche



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Falling In Love, Historical, Love Triangles, M/M, Reincarnation, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec/pseuds/Gerec, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachatblanche/pseuds/lachatblanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik still remembers the day he lost everything to a pack of werewolves; his family, his village, and the love of his life. Left with nothing but regret and pain everlasting, he turns to Sebastian Shaw - who promises revenge in exchange for loyalty eternal.</p><p>For centuries, he leads his clan of vampires in a war against their hated enemy, the same werewolf pack responsible for the slaughter of Erik’s village. But now Logan - the pack’s new leader - wants to make peace with their age old adversaries; an act that neither side particularly cares to pursue.</p><p>Adding to this volatile mix is one Charles Xavier, scientist and academic, drawn to the continent by his fascination for the supernatural and the locals’ tales of love, betrayal and never-ending war…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Here be love triangles. Oh, and monsters too.
> 
> A tumblr collaboration fic by lachatblanche and the lovely Gerec <3

_1136 AD_

 

The day was bright and the sun shone strongly in the sky. It was unusual for that time of year, when the rains usually poured down and winds were harsh. It was therefore not at all surprising to see almost all of the villagers, from the youngest to the oldest, assembled outside, trying to make the most of the sunshine while it was still there.

Only one person seemed indifferent to it all. Erik stood in the shadows, his back against the wooden walls of the empty stables, his eyes focused intently on a knot of villagers who were standing out in the sun. As he watched, one of the figures – the oldest, perhaps, although it was difficult to tell from his soft, youthful features – let out a bright laugh before leaning forward to take a heavy iron pail from one of the younger members of the group. Laughing once more at something that was said, the man turned away from the group and started to move forward. As he did so, his eyes flickered up and, catching on Erik’s, immediately filled with a soft, knowing look, and he quickly changed direction and aimed his feet towards the stables.

Erik did not move as the figure moved towards him. He simply waited, leaning against the wall, his eyes never leaving the smiling man’s cheerful face as he came closer. 

“You are far too obvious my friend,” Charles murmured as he brushed past Erik under the guise of finding a place to set down the iron pail, slopping some water over the edge as he did so. “Anyone could guess the nature of your thoughts from the way you are staring.”

Erik let out a dismissive grunt, finally choosing to straighten up from where he had been leaning against the stable wall. “I very much doubt it,” he said dryly, shaking his head even as his eyes followed Charles unceasingly. “It would only be obvious if they knew what they were looking for, and you and I both know that no one here suspects that there is anything more than friendship between us. In fact,” he added with a derisive smile. “I would be surprised if such a thought had ever entered the head of anyone here.” He sighed as Charles shot him a disapproving glance, and shook his head. “You overestimate them all, Charles.”

“And you _underestimate_ them,” Charles said reproachfully, setting down the bucket and turning to face Erik. “You are very unforgiving of our people, Erik. They are hardly as naïve and ignorant as you insist on painting them. You forget that they were born and raised here, just the same as us. And I hardly think that we are the first ones to experience such feelings for each other.”

Erik raised an eyebrow. “And your point is …?” he asked sardonically.

“My _point_ ,” Charles said, taking a step forward. “Is that you think too much of yourself and too little of everyone else.”

Erik folded his arms across his chest. “That is not entirely correct,” he said coolly. He eyed Charles with a clear, unflinching gaze. “You see, Charles, it is not myself that I am comparing them to. I compare them all to _you_.” He paused. “Well,” he added after a moment. “You and my mother, I suppose.”

Charles blinked at that and then his gaze softened. “Oh Erik,” he said fondly, shaking his head. “You think far too much of me, my friend.”

“Then you do yourself a disservice,” Erik said immediately, raising his chin. “Because I think of you only in the way that you deserve to be thought of.” He then turned and glared around at the villagers assembled out in the sunshine. “And the fact that no one else can see that proves that their opinions are just as useless to me as I have always said.”

“They _do_ see, Erik,” Charles said with warm exasperation. “They all know how close we are to one another. Well,” he amended. “Not _exactly_ how close, but they know we care for each other very much.”

Erik raised his eyebrow. “Charles,” he drawled. “They think us _brothers_.”

Charles could not resist smiling at that. “And I thank the gods daily that we are not,” he said with a laugh. “I do not think that they would consider many of our shared activities to be particularly brotherly in nature.”

In truth, their relationship had never been a fraternal one. Although they had lived together under the same roof since they were very young, Charles having been readily taken in by Erik’s family upon the sudden death of his parents, neither Charles nor Erik had ever felt a brotherly sort of affection for one another. It was a distinction that had not meant very much at first, but it had taken on new importance as the two had grown. It had been bittersweet when Charles, upon reaching manhood, had left his place within Erik’s house to inhabit the hut left to him by his own family, as was his right: bitter, because they both felt the separation – however small and insignificant – deeply; sweet, because it was a definite mark that the two were truly not brothers. The privacy afforded to them by Charles’s new independence was also, of course, greatly welcomed by the both of them. 

The mischievous spark receded quickly from Charles’s eyes when Erik did not laugh, and a new atmosphere settled in between them as their eyes met. Charles held Erik’s gaze for a moment before then glancing down at his feet and biting his lip. “Will you come to me tonight?” he asked in a low voice, his lashes lowered almost coyly.

Erik gave a short nod. “Tonight,” he confirmed brusquely, his gaze boring deep into Charles. “And every night after it.”

Charles laughed at that, lifting his head up. “That is a fine sentiment,” he said smiling. “But do be careful not to make promises that you cannot keep, my friend.”

Erik met his eyes unflinchingly. “Don’t worry,” he said coolly. “I always do.”

*****

That night saw them sweaty and sated, lying together on the plain straw mattress in Charles’s hut, their bodies closely intertwined. They lay together peacefully, listening to the sounds of each other breathing and revelling in the closeness.

“I heard them talking tonight,” Charles said abruptly, his voice low and quiet as he traced a pattern on Erik’s bare arm. He was silent for a moment before he continued. “They’re talking about marrying you off.”

“They are always talking about marrying me off,” Erik said dismissively, shifting slightly so that he was pressed against Charles’s back. “That is nothing unusual.”

Charles shook his head. “No,” he said, sounding troubled. “It is different this time. They have someone in mind now. Magda,” he said when he felt Erik frown. “The traveller girl. The one whose father trades with the village.”

“I know her,” Erik said curtly, still wearing a frown. His arm tightened around Charles. “That does not mean that I have any intention of marrying her, though.”

“She is a lovely girl,” Charles said, sounding hesitant in a way that was unnatural and made Erik grit his teeth. “She is very beautiful. And intelligent too. You would make a good match, the two of you together.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed and he turned to face Charles. “You almost sound like you want me to do it,” he said accusingly.

Charles quickly shook his head. “You know I do not,” he said, his voice quiet. “But this is not something that is just going to go away, Erik. You will have to marry soon, you know. It is all that your parents can talk about.”

“Then they are wasting their breath,” Erik said impatiently, squaring his jaw. “I have no intention of ever marrying. Not Magda, nor anyone else.” He paused. “Not anyone that _they_ would choose for me to marry, at least,” he amended.

Charles felt his face go warm. He nevertheless soldiered on, determined not to think too much on what Erik’s words might have meant. “Everyone needs to marry, Erik,” he said gently. “It is the way things are done. Do you not wish to have children some day?”

Erik didn’t say anything for a moment. “No,” he said at last, his voice firm. “I have no wish to have children.”

Charles frowned. “Not ever?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“Never,” Erik answered calmly. “I have no desire to be a father.”

Charles looked away at that, disturbed. “I did not know you felt that way,” he said carefully after a long moment.

Erik frowned. “I do not see why it is so surprising,” he said shortly. “You already knew that I had no desire to marry. It follows that I would have no desire for children either.”

“But—”

“Oh, enough of this talk,” Erik said irritably, waving him off. “Why must we keep going over this?”

“I am not the one who keeps raising the issue, Erik,” Charles said wearily. “It is your father and your mother. They worry for you, you know.”

Erik grimaced and pulled away from Charles’s side. “Why won’t they let the matter drop?” he grumbled, pushing himself upright. “They never used to be so insistent.”

“Well, you are not getting any younger,” Charles said mildly, also moving to sit up. He waited for a moment and then sighed, his expression growing solemn. “All men are expected to marry, Erik,” he said quietly. He shrugged. “I expect that they will start talking of me too, soon enough.”

Erik immediately stiffened. “And do you-” he cleared his throat, his voice unusually toneless. “Do you intend to do as they ask?”

Charles said nothing.

“Charles!” Erik barked. “Do you?”

Charles sighed. “I do not know,” he admitted. “All I know is,” he hesitated. “Is that I _do_ want children some day, Erik.”

Erik’s lips tightened. 

“I am sorry,” Charles said softly, looking pained. “I know that this is not what either of us truly wants, but-”

“If it is not what you want then do not do it!” Erik said sharply.

Charles sighed. “It is not that simple,” he said unhappily. “And you know it.”

“So what,” Erik said roughly. “You will wait for the elders to choose some chaste, suitable maiden for you and then you will wed her? You will have children with her?”

Charles did not respond. For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then Erik broke the silence. “I will not allow it,” he said quietly. When Charles turned to him in surprise, his expression was fierce and his jaw was taut. “I won’t allow you to do that, Charles,” he said firmly. “I will not allow you to tie yourself to someone that you do not love for the rest of your life. I won’t.”

Charles bristled at that. “You won’t _allow_ it?” he asked disbelievingly. 

Erik’s lips tightened but he did not respond.

Charles shook his head at that and let out a harsh laugh. “Of course you won’t,” he said flatly. “After all, you always know better than I do.” He smiled bitterly. “I would have expected you to at least be honest about your reasons, though.”

Erik turned to him, looking affronted. “What are you talking about?” he snapped.

Charles raised his eyebrows and fixed Erik with a narrow gaze. “Do not try to pretend that your motives are so very pure, Erik,” he said coolly. “We both know better than that. If you are going to be that way about things then the least that you could do is be truthful about your reasons for it.”

Erik gritted his teeth at that. “Fine,” he snapped, his hackles rising. “You demand the truth? Then I will tell it to you, even though you may not want to hear it.” He met Charles’s eyes. “I won’t let you abandon what is between us, Charles,” he said fiercely. “I won’t have you give yourself up for the sake of convention and expectation. I won’t have you married off to someone who is unworthy of you.” His eyes then narrowed. “I will not allow someone else to take you away from me.”

Charles stared at him for a long moment, looking almost incredulous. Then, deciding that Erik was overreacting, he shook his head and let out a sigh. “You are taking this far too seriously, Erik,” he chided, making his tone gentle. “This has not even happened yet. And you _know_ that I have no intention of ever being apart from you.”

But Erik was not finished. “I would kill them,” he said abruptly, startling Charles with the intensity of his voice. His eyes flashed and bored into Charles’s. “I mean it, Charles,” he said quietly. “You do not think that I would do such a thing, but you are wrong. I would do it, for you. To save you from wasting away like that.”

Charles stared at him in bewilderment as he spoke, his eyes wide and his face pale. Then, after a moment, he let out a shaky laugh and shook his head. “You are ridiculous,” he said, shoving weakly at Erik’s shoulder in a poor attempt to alleviate the tension. “You always were far too dramatic, Erik. You should hear the things you say!”

Erik made to open his mouth in retort, but then paused, as if debating the virtues of carrying on as he had. At Charles’s pleading look, however, he sighed and shook his head. “Hmm,” he murmured, non-committal, and allowed himself to be drawn back down to the mattress and have his limbs rearranged so that his arms were around Charles’s body. He kept silent all the while, pretending not to see the look of relief on Charles’s face when he did not say anything further.

They lay together on the bed, once more in silence, although this time the hush was marred by the weight of the thoughts that circled through their heads.

“I do love you,” Charles said quietly, after a moment, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Nothing will ever change that, Erik. Not time, not marriage and not children. We might not always be able to be together – not in the way we want – but, whatever happens, you will always have me.” He brought up his hand and gently squeezed Erik’s arm. “I promise you that. I will always be yours. If not in this life, then in the next.”

The arms around Charles’s middle tightened as Erik buried his head in Charles’s shoulder. “I want you now,” Erik said stubbornly, his voice muffled even as his lips brushed Charles’s skin. 

Charles smiled at that and slowly turned around in the circle of Erik’s arms. “Well then,” he said softly, smiling up at Erik. “Have me.”

Erik lifted his head from Charles’s shoulder and, leaning close to press his lips against Charles’s, happily complied.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik makes a proposition and Charles accepts. And Erik pays a visit to Lord Sebastian Shaw.

Thankfully there were no further talks in the days that followed, of marriage to Magda or any other eligible maiden in the village. Erik labored in the blacksmith’s forge during those waning days of autumn, his nights spent languidly in the arms of his beloved Charles. All was as it should be; he could think of nothing better than a lifetime spent in Meissen, perfecting his trade until it was time to take over his father’s work.

In his heart, Erik had hoped for understanding from his family; after all, his sister Ruth was set to marry in the spring and would undoubtedly give his parents the grandchildren they craved. And unlike Charles, he was certain that they knew of Erik’s feelings for his best friend and that their insistence on marrying him off was for appearances only.

He was wrong.

Two days before the Festival of the Harvest Moon, as they all sat around the table for their evening meal, his mother said, “Beval is coming to join us this year. He and Magda both.”

Erik did not respond, though he chanced a quick glance across the table. Charles was staring at the stewed mutton on his plate, face resigned and unhappy.

“Charles has kindly agreed to take them on as guests, since he has more room,” his mother continued, ignoring the mounting tension and Erik’s thunderous expression. “And you can both get to know Magda better while she's here for the Festival, as I know anyone you marry will also need Charles’s approval.”

“No.”

“Now, Erik,” his father said, countenance stern and so unlike his usual jovial self. “You are twenty years old. We have allowed you your freedom long enough. As eldest son it is your duty to carry on the family name.” He glanced at Charles and his gaze softened. “You must know…it couldn’t last forever.”

“I said, no.”

His sister reached over and grasped his hand, easing his clenched fist open until she could hold it with her own. “It doesn’t have to be Magda, Erik. It doesn’t have to be anyone you don’t like. This is just a chance for the two of you to get to know one another.”

They all jumped in surprise when he stood and slammed his mug down, mead splashing across the wooden table in his anger. “No. Why will none of you listen to me? I don’t want to get to know her! I don’t want to marry Magda or anyone else!”

“Erik—”

He ignored his mother’s voice and the clatter of plates and stools behind him, and stormed out into the brisk night air. By the time he reached the smithy his anger had cooled, though his resolve had only strengthened, hard and unbending as the metal he shaped upon his anvil.

It was Charles who followed him - who always followed, even when they were children - ever ready to temper Erik’s ire and heal his wounds. He did not speak, only wrapped his arms around Erik from behind as Erik stood stock still in front of the cold stone forge.

“Come with me,” he murmured, turning in Charles’s arms until they faced each other in the dark. “Let’s leave this place and make a home somewhere else. Where we can be happy and live our days as men who care nothing for a meaningless legacy.”

“We can’t just leave your family,” Charles sighed, though he clung tighter to Erik as he spoke, hands fisted in the folds of Erik’s tunic. “ _Our_ family. We’ll miss them too much. And Jakob needs your help here more and more. And your _mother_ , Erik. How could we possibly leave Edie behind?”

“We won’t have to go far. Lord Shaw, I’ve spoken with him, and he wants me to join him at the castle. He could use your skill with horses too Charles. And Schwarzkron is only a day’s journey away – we can visit often, I promise.”

Charles gently pushed himself out of Erik’s arms, and gazed up at him with unaccustomed wariness. “When did you speak with Lord Shaw? And why didn’t you tell me?”

“A month ago, when he came to commission a new blade, remember?” Erik explained. “I didn’t say anything then, because the idea seemed unlikely to ever happen. But think, Charles,” he pressed on, unable to contain his growing excitement, “we can be happy there. And free to live our lives as we see fit.”

He watched Charles’s face eagerly, and drank in every slight change in expression with nervous anticipation. Though he believed whole-heartedly that Charles loved him and wanted to be with him, the idea of moving away _was_ daunting; doubly so for someone so invested in the welfare of the village and its inhabitants. 

“If we go---” Charles started, and Erik could contain himself no longer, throwing his arms around his lover and dragging him close for a kiss. Charles welcomed him, mouth parting with a soft moan as Erik kissed him again and again, until they were both breathless and their lips bruised.

Charles chuckled, and playfully nipped the bottom of Erik’s lip. “Stop distracting me.” And Erik laughed. “I said _if_ we go, we will need some time to prepare. You father will need to find a new apprentice and I’ll need someone to take over my lessons with the children. Oh we can’t leave before your sister’s wedding, Erik! And, I suppose we have my home to--”

“Yes Charles,” Erik laughed again, unable to contain his joy, “we will find someone new to teach the children their letters. Perhaps Ruth will agree, she likes them as much as you do.” Reluctantly, he let go of Charles and stepped back, turning to pull his traveling pack from the oak chest by the door. “We’ll sort it all out. As soon as I get back.”

Charles grabbed his arm and spun him around, so quickly that Erik almost dropped his pack. “What do you mean ‘when you get back’? Where are you going?”

“I need to go to Schwarzkron—”

“What, _now_?”

“—and speak with Lord Shaw as soon as possible. To make sure the blacksmith’s position is still available.”

Sebastian Shaw had seemed most sincere when they last spoke, the open admiration for his talent and the promise of a good wage leaving with Erik a lasting impression. He had been surprised to find a sort of kindred spirit in Lord Shaw, who eschewed the traditions and conventions of the times himself, living without wife or children in his large castle on the hill.

“But the Festival is only two days away!” Charles objected, eyes flashing with anger at what he perceived to be proof of Erik’s impetuous nature. “Why not wait ‘til the week’s end and then we can travel together to visit his Lordship?” 

Erik kissed him again, and brushed his fingers across Charles’s brow, easing the furrows across his forehead. “I want to have his answer when Magda and her father arrive. So I can tell my parents of our plans and stop their match making before an innocent young woman gets hurt.”

A smile blossomed across Charles’s face at his words and Erik couldn’t stop his own grin from forming. “I can’t disagree with that logic. Though we will have to tread carefully when you return. With both Magda and with your family.”

“We will.”

He took Charles’s hand and led him outside, where the two shared a final kiss that filled Erik’s heart with sweet comfort. 

“I love you,” Charles said. “Be careful. And come home soon.”

Erik squeezed his hand, taking a moment to memorize Charles’s face in the moonlight. He would keep the image close; the soft smile on Charles’s lips and the way his eyes seemed to glitter even in the dark. It was a poor substitute for Charles’s company and the warmth of his body at night but Erik would be returning soon enough, and then their lives together could truly begin.

“I love you, Charles. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”

*****

Erik arrived the next evening, having stopped to rest for only a short while on the road, anxious as he was to reach Schwarzkron. He was received by Lord Shaw with great ceremony for a man of common birth, something Erik brushed off as another of his Lordship’s rather admirable – if eccentric - traits.

They spoke long into the night, as Lord Shaw took occasional sips from his golden cup and Erik ate the finest cuts of boar and grouse. His Lordship listened, and did not judge, as Erik shared his longing for a life with Charles by his side. It might have been the wine that loosened his tongue, but Erik thought it more likely to be Lord Shaw’s easy confidence and understanding manner that allowed him to bare his soul without fear.

He went to sleep in a luxurious room the size of his family’s home, one that his Lordship insisted would be his to share with Charles when they returned in the spring. Erik did not think it possible to be so content, and dreamed many dreams of his lover that night, splayed beneath him on the four poster bed.

When he woke next, it was early afternoon and Erik was anxious to make his return to Meissen. But he found that Lord Shaw was unavailable, away for the day on castle business, and so could not in good conscience make his leave. The Steward, Azazel – a fierce looking man with the bad luck of being born with unnaturally red skin – fed him another extravagant meal, and then led him on a tour of the grounds, where Erik spent some time acquainting himself with the empty smithy.

It was not until late evening when Lord Shaw returned and asked for Erik, insisting – over Erik’s polite objections – that he join him again for dinner. And though Erik was keen to get home to Charles, he found himself quite unable to refuse the man’s kind offer, settling himself in front of a feast fit for ten. There were delicacies Erik had never even imagined, and enough meat to last his family for a week, all laid beautifully in the finest dishes trimmed in gold. In his two days at Schwarzkron Erik had eaten more and better than he had in his entire life.

He noticed that Lord Shaw ate very little, mostly content to push bloody pieces of meat around and around on his plate. When Erik inquired on his health, his Lordship merely smiled and changed topics, citing recovery from a recent illness for his seeming disinterest in the food. And though he lacked the inclination to eat, he urged Erik to enjoy himself thoroughly, insisting that his cook’s hard work should be savored by a young man with a strong and healthy appetite.

As before, the two spent hours together in conversation, with Lord Shaw regaling Erik with tales of his many travels. Sebastian Shaw was charming and forward thinking for the times and Erik considered himself quite lucky to have gained his Lordship’s favor. He did not know what he’d done to deserve it, but knew it would be foolish to question his good fortune. 

“Erik, my boy,” Lord Shaw said, his dark eyes and pale features striking an impressive figure in the flickering candlelight. “Men like you and I, we want so much more than what society dictates is our role. What use is a wife if you have not love? And children if you have not affection? Life is a grand adventure for those willing to take a risk! And the reward is all the greater for those whose aim exceeds their reach. Are we not the better men for daring to dream?”

He found himself nodding in agreement, and though the hour grew late, loath to turn in for the night. At last Erik could keep his eyes open no longer, and excused himself, reminding Lord Shaw that he would set out for home in the morning. 

That night he did not dream of Charles as he’d expected; instead, it was Lord Shaw who sat beside him on the bed, his hand carding gently through Erik’s hair. It should have been alarming, to dream of his Lordship in such a manner, affectionate and intimate as between father and son or two lovers. Yet in the morning, he felt no sense of trepidation or shame; only determination to return home as soon as possible.

Azazel sent him on his way with fresh bread and ham, for which Erik thanked him - and by extension Lord Shaw - profusely. He travelled with little rest throughout the day and into the night, his thoughts only of finding Charles and sharing the good news. The extra day at Schwarzkron meant that Erik had missed the Festival’s start, and no doubt his family would be worried at his delay. This, along with the ardent wish to hold Charles in his arms again, spurred him onwards, and he arrived finally at the outskirts of Meissen just before dawn…

…only to find smoke curling high in the sky, and his village burning to the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik finds Charles and his family. Logan makes an appearance. And Lord Shaw has an offer for Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : Character death, character death, character death. Mild blood and gore. Major character death. BUT, if you note the 'reincarnation' tag above, you know it doesn't stick.
> 
> Also Shaw being creepy deserves a warning of its own.
> 
>  **EDITED TO ADD:** A big thank you to **widgenstain** for her help with the name for Shaw's castle! 'Schwarzkron' is German for 'Black Crown'.

Erik’s feet carried him without thought towards the square, where he knew everyone would have gathered for the Festival. Smoke and heat swirled all around him, as the fires burned a swath of destruction through the village. He cried out for Charles but received no answer, the only sound the crackling of flames and the creak of toppling wood and stone.

When at last he reached the village’s center he gasped, for there, upon the ground were many bodies, young and old. He stopped next to the closest – Friedrich, the village cobbler – and turned him over from where he lay face down on the ground. He was dead.

His body bore marks of some kind of wild animal attack, slashes across his arms and chest, and a jagged gash on his neck where he had been savagely bitten. Erik gagged involuntarily at the sight of so much blood spilled, and turned his head, only to find the same vicious wounds covering the body beside Friedrich’s. It was the same with the next one too, a little girl named Letta, one of Charles’s precious students. 

And so it was with the next. And the next. And the next.

There was no sign of Charles or his family amongst the bodies strewn across the square, and hope flared within his chest that they might have somehow escaped the slaughter. He raced to his hut at the northeastern edge but found nothing there but an empty building, the burning roof half collapsed to the ground. 

Erik found many more bodies on the street as he turned towards the smithy, some still clutching half bundled belongings as they’d attempted to escape. All had fallen to wounds by the same unknown menace, and though he tried to construe some meaning for the attack, his mind could find no reasonable answer.

He came to an abrupt stop in front of the smithy doors, any further thoughts on ‘how’ and ‘why’ having completely fled his mind. There on the ground lay his father, along with Beval and Ruth’s betrothed Marcus, their bodies ravaged and covered in blood.

“No. Papa,” Erik said, too stunned to acknowledge the scene for what it meant. He was fourteen again, and scared, and desperately needed his father’s sense of steadiness and calm. “What’s--, wake up! We have to go! We have to find Mama and Ruth! And Charles! Please! Wake up!”

There were weapons beside their bodies, and his father still clutched a sword in his right hand. Erik held him and brushed a grey curl carefully from his father’s face, tears blurring his vision ‘til he could no longer see. Finally, he wiped his eyes and took great heaving breaths to calm down, before placing a gentle kiss on Jakob’s brow.

“I have to go find them,” he whispered, and laid his father’s body back down on the ground. “I’ll be right back.”

Erik moved as though in a dream, hands reaching slowly to push open the smithy door. And where moments ago he might have prayed fervently to see his loved ones inside, now he wanted to find nothing at all.

He saw Magda first, flung to one side of the door, her hand clutched around a dagger that was red with blood. 

His Mama and Ruth lay in the corner side by side, his mother holding his sister’s hand.

And there was Charles fallen before them both - his beautiful, beloved Charles - guarding them even in death, an axe hanging limp from his outstretched hand.

Time stood still as the terrible reality washed over him; the whole village had been massacred. His entire family, dead.

He wrapped his arms around Mama and his little sister Ruth, and cried tears unending as his heart broke in two. The pain was so excruciating he thought it would kill him; and he wished that it would, so he did not have to live when all whom he loved had been torn from him.

At last he cradled Charles’s lifeless body in his arms, and whispered to him, words of tenderness and undying love. Erik refused to see the wounds that littered Charles’s body, and saw only his lover as he appeared in sleep. He smoothed away the matted hair from Charles’s forehead and peppered his face with kisses, ignoring the chill beneath his lips.

He did not know how long he sat on the smithy floor; unseeing, unable to move, the world burning to ashes around him. 

*****

It was an argument that broke Erik from his stupor, the unexpected sound of raised voices filtering in through the open door. He placed Charles gently on the ground and grabbed the ax that had fallen from his hand, before making his way towards the noises outside.

“—could you do this Victor? All of these…so many…there are _children_ here! Why?”

He could see them through the opening, two men in heated discussion some distance from where Erik stood. They were both tall – perhaps the same as Erik at six feet – with dark hair and dark eyes. Neither man seemed particularly threatening, and could be mistaken for simple travelers passing through. 

“Are you questioning the way I lead the pack, Logan? You made yourself very clear that you had no interest in my dealings with Shaw. So you don’t get a _say_ on how I choose to handle things.”

“Handle things? You call this _handling_ things? You ordered the massacre of an entire village! For what? These people had nothing to do with Sebastian Shaw!”

Erik felt the anger and hatred rise up like a tidal wave, flooding like liquid fire through his veins. These men – these _monsters_ – had murdered his family, over some unknown grievance with Lord Shaw. He would make them pay for the lives they took today, and if he could not, then he would gladly join his loved ones in oblivion where he belonged.

“And what would you know about Shaw and his plans? He won’t rest—”

He didn’t hear anything else, for he was already running out the door with a shout, the axe raised over his head. Both men looked surprised for a moment, but then the one closest to Erik easily dodged his blow, turning quickly to grab him by the throat.

“Well, well. Looks like we missed one, little brother.” 

Erik snarled and struggled as the one called Victor lifted him off his feet, and dangled him as though he weighed no more than a feather. He seemed amused with Erik’s attempts to break free, and his smug grin sent the rage coursing through Erik’s veins.

“Let him go, Victor. You’ve done enough,” the voice behind him growled.

But the hand around his throat squeezed tighter and Erik could no longer breathe. He tried to pry the hand from around his neck but it held him like a vise, and he knew he had failed. He would die here, the murderers would escape, and none – except perhaps Lord Shaw – would care that his entire village had been obliterated. 

As he began to lose consciousness, and black spots danced before his eyes, he heard the one called Logan speak again. 

“I said, drop him. _Now_.”

To his surprise, Victor let go and he fell to the ground, gasping for breath. He watched as Logan advanced, his demeanor angry and hostile.

Victor laughed. “Are you going to fight me, little brother? For a pathetic human?”

“You will let him live,” Logan answered, voice low and threatening, “or one of us will not be leaving this day.”

With those words Logan began to convulse, fur erupting violently from his skin to cover every inch of his rippling body. He howled as his new form took shape before Erik’s very eyes; limbs lengthening and fingers becoming claws sharp as knives. Vicious fangs protruded from his mouth as he grew larger, and he loomed menacingly over Victor – who reacted only with a wry smirk.

He was no longer a man, but a beast. A beast in wolf’s form.

And that was the last thing Erik saw, before he knew no more.

*****

When Erik opened his eyes he found himself covered in furs, laying on a bed soft and familiar. He thought perhaps that he’d experienced nothing more than a dream; that he’d yet to leave Schwarzkron to make the journey home.

That he had not in fact, stumbled upon his village on fire with all of its inhabitants dead. 

He did not know how long he lay there, unmoving, afraid to face an unthinkable reality. If he did not move than he could still pretend – that Charles and his family were still in Meissen, all of them alive and whole.

Between thoughts of his mother’s smile and his father’s good humor, Erik drifted into unconsciousness once more. This time his dreams were filled with fire and smoke, his family and friends clamoring for justice. Charles stood before him drenched in blood, and Erik reached desperately for him, only to awaken once more with a jolt.

“Ah, you’re awake,” said a voice in the dimly lit room, and Erik recognized it at once. “I was beginning to worry my dear boy.”

“How did I--” Erik began, but found he could not continue, his throat dry and sore. Lord Shaw seemed to sense his discomfort immediately, and helped Erik sit up in bed and take a long drink of water.

They sat together for some time, as Erik stared out the window in silence. He did not know what to do, or say, when all the world seemed so dark and desolate. He thought perhaps it would have been better, if he had also died at Victor’s hands. He knew now he could never avenge the deaths of his loved ones; for how could Erik hope to win against such foul creatures of the night?

“You must not think so, Erik,” Lord Shaw said, as he laid his hand gently upon Erik’s arm and patted him soothingly. “In all my years I have never met another with such potential! Long have I waited for you, my boy! Someone with such fire! Someone _special_ , and worthy of my legacy.”

He shook his head. “I wish for nothing, but to see Charles and my family once more.”

Lord Shaw sighed, and though Erik was loath to disappoint him, he could find no comfort in his Lordship’s words. He had nothing to look forward to but a quick death.

“I’m sorry I failed you,” his Lordship admitted, and Erik could see that the man looked quite remorseful indeed. “It was my duty to protect your village and I failed. I did not know those beasts could be…so cruel.”

“You knew about them? What they are? How could you--” He bit his lip to keep the accusations from pouring forth, though it was clear from his Lordship’s response that his expression betrayed his thoughts.

“You are right, Erik. I am the one to blame. I have fought these creatures for many years, and protected my lands from their corruption. In my arrogance I thought I would always succeed, and so I sought to protect my people from living in fear by keeping the existence of these creatures hidden.”

Erik watched as Lord Shaw stood from his seat beside the bed and walk slowly towards the window, his path bathed in moonlight. He looked ethereal, Erik thought, and powerful. And if such a man could not rid the world of these wolf-men, then what hope did a poor blacksmith have for revenge?

“I received intelligence that this pack of werewolves was planning an attack, and so I had my men ready themselves for battle,” his Lordship continued. “But they were more cunning than I expected, and led us to believe that their target was the village of Lommatzsch. By the time we realized the treachery it was too late, and we arrived at Meissen only in time to rescue you from further harm.”

“I saw two men – two creatures there, who called themselves ‘Victor’ and ‘Logan.’ Did you see them?”

Lord Shaw bowed his head in sorrow. “They were not there when we arrived. We found only you…alive.”

Erik nodded, for he had seen with his own eyes that there were no survivors. “Charles…my family. I want…” He could not continue, his throat clenching shut as his pain overwhelmed him. But as before, his Lordship seemed to understand his request without any words.

“The bodies of your family and Charles I had moved here to the castle, so you can have them close. My men are dealing with the rest of the dead in Meissen, and will take care to give them a proper burial.”

“My Lord,” Erik said, “I owe you a debt of kindness I can never repay. Though I hope you will consider granting me one final wish.”

His Lordship frowned but waved his hand for Erik to continue.

“I intend to go after the ones who killed my family, though it is unlikely I will survive the attempt. I wish to be buried with them, so we can be together again in the hereafter.”

Lord Shaw did not answer right away, though he came once more to sit beside him, his eyes intent on Erik’s face. In the dim light his Lordship’s eyes shone like a rippling pond, and Erik found that he could not look away.

“What if…there was a way for you to fight these creatures and live?” his Lordship asked, and he leaned closer, until Erik could see nothing but his silhouette in the dark. “I offer you a gift – one I have never given to any other, my dear boy.”

Erik stammered, “I don’t understand--”

“You will become powerful,” Lord Shaw interrupted and Erik was mesmerized by the promise in his words. “You will have the strength of ten men and you will never again be afraid. You will live forever, as you are now, young and beautiful.” His Lordship brushed a finger softly against his cheek and Erik shivered. “I want you by my side, Erik. And together, we will destroy these beasts and avenge the deaths of those you love.”

“But how can this be? What is this gift, your Lordship? And how can it…do all the things you claim?” 

A smile, warm and kind bloomed across Lord Shaw’s face, and Erik felt a measure of guilt for questioning his generous offer. “A simple exchange. A blood oath, if you will. That is all that is required, Erik, and then you will live evermore; my sword of justice against the creatures of the night.”

He was tempted, to accept his Lordship’s gift; for what purpose did he have left, if not revenge? But he remembered Charles’s fervent vow – that they would be together for eternity, in this life and the next, and how could he find his love again if he lived forever?

Erik dared to grasp Lord Shaw’s hand, and gasped when it felt cold as the first ice of winter. He tried to pull away, but his Lordship held tight, and slowly began to stroke the knuckles on Erik’s hand.

“I thank you for your most kind offer, my Lord,” Erik said, “but I must regretfully decline. I would reunite with my beloved Charles in our next life, if the gods are willing.”

His Lordship’s face twisted in anger, and the eyes boring into him turned black as a moonless night. But Erik did not have time to be afraid, for Lord Shaw’s demeanor changed in the blink of an eye, and he was calm and gentle once more.

“Of course, I understand. A gift unwanted is no gift at all, is it my dear boy?” His Lordship sighed and rubbed his temple and Erik found that he wanted to reach out to comfort him. “It is a risk you are taking to find your Charles, for there is no guarantee that either of you will be reborn. But love is a powerful force, and I will not stop you from trying.” 

Erik was greatly relieved, for he had no wish to offend a man who had shown him nothing but kindness. He said nothing as his Lordship patted his hand and stood, before making his way towards the door.

“A pity,” he said, as he turned back towards Erik. “Though I promise you this - I will never give up on finding the culprits who murdered your family. I couldn’t in good conscience, let anyone else suffer what your poor Charles went through…”

He felt his stomach clench, his mind flooding him with images of a bloody Charles in his arms. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I think it best that you did not know…” Lord Shaw began.

“Tell me!”

His Lordship sighed and approached Erik once more. “His wounds…when we found his body. It showed signs of having been…violated. Before he died.”

Erik could not believe it, for he had seen Charles’s body! He would surely have noticed!

“It is a known thing, that these savage creatures often prey on the innocent, in more ways than one,” Lord Shaw continued. “I saw the wounds myself and I was enraged. I tell you I will never stop until I slay every one of those foul beasts for what they’ve done.”

He thought of Victor’s cruelty and his disdain for humans, and imagined his hands all over Charles while he yet lived. How much pain did Charles suffer at his hands – and any others – before they slaughtered him? Rage seared a path through his body and flooded his veins; the hatred filled his heart to overflowing, until it could no longer be contained. 

“I will kill them,” he vowed, as his struggled to stand. “Give me the power and I will destroy them all! I swear I will spend eternity by your side, if you help me slay every werewolf across this land!” 

Lord Shaw smiled triumphantly, and Erik was suddenly encircled within his arms. He could not look away from the dark eyes that held him captive, and soon found himself falling lax in the man’s hold. 

“I am very pleased, dear boy,” his Lordship whispered, his lips grazing Erik’s neck and sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine. “Now, close your eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When we return - 100% more Charles and 100% less death!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Charles once again as he sets off on a personal mission. He soon makes a new acquaintance.

_1554 AD_

 

Charles Xavier woke up with a jolt, his eyes flying wide open. For a moment he imagined that he was back on board the ship and his stomach clenched instinctively as he awaited the familiar return of the nausea that had plagued him throughout his journey to the Continent. However, when it did not appear after a solid minute of tense apprehension, he found himself relaxing, and the gradual realisation of where he was slowly settled back into his bones.

He was here. He had made it. He was off that cursed, infernal ship and was once more upon dry, precious land.

His head fell back on the pillow with a muffled _thump_ and he let out a sigh, closing his eyes again. If he didn’t allow himself to think then for a moment he could pretend that he was back at home, waiting for the servants to bring him his breakfast while his mother and his step-father sat in the dining hall and ate their morning meal together whilst trading frosty silences …

Charles opened his eyes.

“No thank you,” he muttered under his breath, pulling himself up and peeling off the coverlets on his bed. “I’m quite happy where I am.”

He lowered his feet to the floor and glanced around him. The room he was lodging in was small and cramped and not at all what he was used to, but Charles rather liked that about it. No doubt his mother would have a terrible fit of choler at the sight of him in such a place, but right now she was hundreds of miles away and, since she had never once set foot outside of England before this, Charles felt quite safe from any possible censure that might come at him from that particular quarter.

The lodgings had been a rather spur-of-the-moment decision, admittedly, albeit one that he would not have to suffer for long, eager as he was to get on with his journey. He had arrived into the port of Ritzebüttel little more than twenty-four hours ago and from there had taken a carriage as far inland as he could, desperate to get as far away from the sea as was possible, before he eventually succumbed to exhaustion and had decided to stop and take a room at a nearby lodging. It was somewhat galling to admit that he was not at all made for sea-voyages, but he had quickly decided that it was better to resign himself to this fact rather than attempt another journey at any time soon. He was more glad than he could say that his sister had chosen to visit the Continent instead of the New World: the short time he had spent on the ship was more than enough for him, and he had no doubt whatsoever that he would not have survived a trip to the Americas.

Thinking about Raven caused him to sigh and rub his hand across his eyes. It had been almost a year since Raven had left home in search of more of her kind. She and Charles had orchestrated the matter so it would appear to Countess Xavier that Raven would be serving in the Spanish court whilst on the look-out for a husband, and as anything that increased Raven’s chances of successful match was music to their mother’s ears, the matter had been readily agreed, and Raven had gleefully escaped to the Continent as fast as she could manage without raising suspicions. Once there, it had been easy for Raven to disappear; losing oneself when abroad was infinitely simpler than losing oneself at home, and Raven’s abilities as a shape-shifter only made it all the easier for her. 

Charles had long envied his sister this strange, marvellous ability of hers. He had spent much of his life wishing that they truly were blood relations – only partly out of his desire to share her powers, it was true – and had often imagined that the reason that his father had taken Raven on as a ward was because of a shared blood between them. Great portions of his childhood had been spent with his teeth clenched and his eyes fused shut in concentration as he tried his best to change shape like his sister did so very effortlessly. Sadly, the only change that ever occurred was the colour of his cheeks, which turned a bright and fiery red under the force of his intense concentration.

It was his sister’s abilities that had brought on their shared desire to travel. Raven had always longed to know if there were others in the world who shared her powers of changeability and Charles had an insatiable curiosity that also demanded the need for answers. They had always planned to search the world together; the realisation that their mother would never allow it had been a blow to the both of them. Countess Xavier was surprisingly canny at times, and was apparently quite well aware of the risks of allowing her son and her ward to go off together on whatever no-doubt hare-brained scheme the two of them had cooked up together. The fact that she had been trying to marry Charles off to a suitably rich and well-positioned lady ever since he had come of age was also a great hindrance to Charles’s freedom. It was only by waiting a whole year after Raven had left and by subtly sowing the seeds of an emerging diplomatic career in his mother’s ear and promising to look for a bride upon his return that he had been allowed to leave England for the Continent, and once there, he didn’t intend to look back until he had found Raven and had done all that he had set out to do.

Which, currently, did not involve staying overlong in a set of cramped chambers while the world spun on without him. With a sigh he moved over to table where a ewer of water sat waiting for him. After finishing his ablutions, Charles quickly dressed and set off down the stairs, eager to step outside and see the world with new, less seasick eyes. The town was only small, he knew, and there would be much more to see the further south he went, but he was still eager to savour his first experience of being in a foreign land and he was determined to be impressed with it, however small or ordinary it might appear.

Besides, he thought as he moved carefully down the stairs, he had to find his bearings a little. Raven had briefly mentioned a few place names in one of her letters and Charles was determined to retrace her steps as best he could in order to find out where she had gone and what she had uncovered. She hadn’t been able to reveal very much; although she still wrote home to avert suspicion, these letters were very infrequent and held little of what Raven was truly doing. 

Charles only had a handful of clues about his sister’s whereabouts, place names that were scattered casually throughout her letters in a way that no one but Charles would be able to pick up on. From what he could tell, she was moving further and further south: _We see many nobles from all over the Continent at court_ , she had written at one point, not long after having written about an amiable merchant from Hamburg who had apparently introduced a variety of new baubles at the Spanish court. _There is a Duke from the city of Magdeburg whom I believe to be a very interesting man. He is very knowledgeable about a great many things, although I am told that he spends far too much time in the taverns, spinning out tales that no one pays very much attention to._

That, of course, had meant little to Charles’s mother and step-father, but Charles had known at once that Raven had found something important at Magdeburg and that, were he to go there, he would need to seek out tavern gossip and rumour to find out what had clearly interested her so very much. 

Charles took a moment to shudder at the idea of his precious sister in a dingy and disreputable tavern before then remembering that Raven was a spectacularly talented and gifted shape-shifter who would no doubt be able to fit in at such a place a great deal better than Charles himself ever could.

“Well then,” Charles took in a deep breath as he stepped out onto the street and turned around to take in the bustling town around him. His eyes immediately zeroed in on the nearest building, which just so happened to be a small and dingy tavern. “Maybe I ought to get a bit of practice in before I start …”

*****

It was a few days before Charles could bring himself to leave for Magdeburg. He had honestly intended to make an immediate start on his journey but, as time went on, he found himself deliberately stalling, and it seemed to him that his purpose was not quite so urgent that he could not have a few days’ leeway prior to starting off. This belief seemed to grow stronger with each sip of ale that he consumed and with each kiss that he received on his cheek and with each press of his hand, urging him to stay for a while longer. Thus convinced, Charles had allowed himself to finally sit back, relax, and _truly_ enjoy himself for what seemed to be the first time in recent memory.

He wasn’t blind to his weaknesses, however. He could freely admit it, in retrospect – he had become slightly carried away with the heady sensation of freedom and had lost sight of his goal for a little while. Although he was no stranger to excess whilst at home, the sense of liberty and _anonymity_ that came from being a stranger in a foreign country had brought him to entirely new levels of indulgence. He had spent his first days in a foreign land in a state of hedonistic pleasure, drinking at all hours, making friends of all kinds and then dropping them just as fast, and quite generally doing the sort of things that, at home, would have created a huge scandal and would probably have seen him shunned from court and ostracised by everyone in polite society. His mother, no doubt, would have been the first to have disowned him, while his step-father would probably have taken the strap to him before doing the same.

Charles couldn’t bring himself to regret it, though. He had enjoyed himself thoroughly and, in the last few days, had felt himself freer than he had ever been in his entire life. 

Besides, he thought wryly, Germanic ale was _fantastic_.

For five days Charles allowed himself to bask in contentment and pretend that he had no other purpose but the pursuit of pleasure. On the sixth day, however, he had straightened up, dusted off his coat and, taking his leave of a circle that he would forget – and who would forget _him_ – the moment that he stepped away, Charles had paid his dues at the inn he had been lodged in, chartered a carriage to carry him to Magdeburg, and had set off full of renewed eagerness for his journey.

The drive, it turned out, was a long one. Charles, who was often accused of an inability to sit still for too long, half-regretted hiring a private cab instead of taking a public stagecoach, and found himself yearning for something to distract him for the duration of the drive. He had attempted to engage the driver once or twice during the journey but unfortunately his attempts had been met with the sort of tight-lipped stoicism that would have made his mother envious. 

“What river is this?” Charles had asked once, looking out at the fast-flowing waters as they passed by and hoping that the sight would encourage the carriage driver to be a bit more forthcoming with his conversation.

“The Elbe,” the carriage-driver had grunted out, causing Charles’s hopes to rise for a brief moment, before the driver had summarily shut his mouth close and gone back to driving the cart, looking for all the world as if he had never spoken. 

Charles, who, contrary to his sister’s assertions, did in fact know when he wasn’t wanted, had soon taken the hint and had refrained from bothering him, resigning himself to staring out of the window in the hope that the views would keep him occupied. Luckily for him, the rocking motion of the carriage quickly sent him off to sleep, making the journey a great deal less tedious than it might have been.

It was late evening when he finally arrived at Magdeburg and Charles, feeling exhausted despite having done little but slept all day in the coach, found himself dragging his feet towards the nearest inn and all but collapsing on the bed once he had paid for a room. 

He slept well that night, and he awoke in the morning with a firm plan in mind.

He was not going to get drunk.

He was not going to fall into bed with strangers.

He was going to do as he had always intended and he was going to find out what it was that Raven had been so eager for him to hear.

Resolution made, Charles then made his way out into the city, ready to face the world.

*****

Seven days in, and Charles still hadn’t made any progress. He had made discreet enquiries throughout the city about anything strange or unusual that people might have seen or heard, and although he received a great many answers, none of them related to the type of strange and unusual that he was looking for. He also made one or two half-hearted attempts to enquire after Raven, but he soon gave that up, knowing that it would be useless to do so. After all, it was the height of folly to ask if someone had seen his sister when said sister could look like any man, woman or child who crossed the street in front of them.

Such enquiries took up the majority of Charles’s day, as did his eager explorations of the city. By night, however, he sought out as many taverns as he could find and spent as long a time inside them as he could without becoming spectacularly drunk and forgetting his purpose, with the aim of talking to the patrons as Raven had suggested. 

It wasn’t easy at first: some of the taverns were very small and catered to only a few local patrons and Charles, with his fine airs and clothes and oddly-accented speech, quickly marked himself out as a stranger in their midst. He tried to use this to his advantage, however, and was pleased to say that, while he might not have won the locals over entirely, he was nevertheless tolerated by them. He had now come back to the same tavern for the last few nights, the patrons proving to be slightly more amenable than many others that he had encountered elsewhere, and he was allowed to remain on the fringes of their circle and was sometimes, if he was subtle about it, even able to steer the conversation in his desired direction. 

“Witches,” an old man nodded wisely, when Charles had innocently asked whether there was anything unusual about the region. “We have a lot of witches here.”

“They summon hell-beasts and demons, they do,” agreed another as he puffed on his pipe. “We hear them howling, sometimes. Coming to collect the souls of those who wander too close, so they say.”

Charles listened with wide eyes, trying to nudge the conversation on and find out more without appearing too eager.

“I’ve seen them,” one of the men elderly men added after a little gentle prompting, his voice low and grave. “When I was but a lad. Saw a pack of hell-beasts run through the village, red-eyed and savage. I didn’t go out for weeks, after.”

There were murmurs of sympathy at that and Charles tried to push for more information but the speaker simply shook his head and refused to say anything more. The others quickly took the hint and the talk moved on to less perturbing subjects such as crop rotation and the harvest. 

Charles sighed, trying not to feel overly disappointed. He waited for a moment, hoping that the conversation would revert back to the witches and hell-beasts that he wanted to hear so much about but when it became clear that this wouldn’t happen, he murmured an excuse and rose from his seat, before heading over to the bar to refill his tankard of ale.

The tavern owner, who was situated behind the bar, was an older man with thick silvery hair and a hooked nose who did not seem to possess the ability to smile. He watched Charles’s approach with a scowl, wearing the very same suspicious look that he had bestowed upon Charles on the first day that he had walked in. 

“You again,” the man muttered, staring at Charles almost reproachfully. “Still here, then?”

“Indeed I am,” Charles said, smiling pleasantly in return. He hadn’t yet given up hope of winning the old man over; in his experience it always paid to be friends with the owner of a tavern that you frequently visited.

The owner grunted at that and set about refilling Charles’s tankard. “Don’t know what brought you here anyway,” he grumbled. “Don’t know why you’re out here bothering us poor decent folk instead of your own sort.”

“My own sort?” Charles raised his eyebrows in genuine curiosity.

The tavern owner grunted and gave Charles and his clothes a pointed once-over.

Charles’s brow wrinkled and opened his mouth to protest before seeming to think better of it. “These are troubled times,” he said instead, speaking lightly and giving a small shrug. “And there’s a spot of bother back home.” He gave the bartender a wry look. “Quite frankly, I am doing all I can to stay out of it.” It wasn’t a lie exactly – there _was_ a great deal of turmoil going on back home; it simply wasn’t Charles’s reason for leaving. 

The tavern owner let out a huff. “You might find that difficult,” he said bluntly. “We have seen our own fair share of troubles here. Maybe not the same as yours, but they are troubles nonetheless.” His hand drifted to the wooden cross that he wore around his neck.

Charles blinked. “I – I’m sure they are,” he said in a placating manner, trying his best to sound understanding instead of condescending.

He didn’t seem to be altogether successful, however, as the bartender simply let out a huff before setting a tankard down – rather forcefully, Charles couldn’t help thinking – in front of him.

Charles sighed. “Politics and religion,” he muttered as the bartender turned away, feeling rather put out. “It’s always one or the other. It’s a damned a good thing that I don’t care a bit about either of them.”

A few seats away, a man let out a sharp snort.

Charles glanced up in surprise. When no one reacted to his glance, he frowned and turned away, reaching out to take his tankard. Just as he was about to raise it, however, there came another loud huff.

“I wouldn’t go around saying that too loudly, if I were you,” a deep voice drawled, and Charles looked up sharply to see a rugged and rather wild-looking man sat a few seats away from him, casually sipping ale from his tankard. As Charles watched, the man lowered his drink and then turned to look at Charles, his eyebrow cocked. “People get real worked up about their religion, round these parts.”

“Oh?” Charles slowly straightened up, casting a wary eye over the stranger and taking in his wild hair and his careless form of dress. “And what of yourself?”

The stranger took a slow drink as he watched Charles, considering. “Let me put it this way, bub,” he said at last, lowering his tankard. “I care about religion even less than I care about politics. And that’s saying something.”

Charles blinked, taken aback at the man’s directness. “You’re awfully forthcoming, considering that you just met me,” he said cautiously, cocking his head. “Especially since you just told me not to say anything like that myself.”

“Yeah, well,” the man shrugged, looking supremely unconcerned. “I can handle myself just fine. _You_ on the other hand …” He cast a look over at Charles that was not so much dismissive as it was simply doubtful.

Charles, of course, immediately took offence. “I’ll have you know that I am a perfectly adequate combatant,” he said sharply, straightening up and giving the stranger the haughtiest glare in his repertoire, the one that he had stolen from his mother. “And you should know that I’m more than acceptable with a rapier.”

The stranger’s eyebrows went up at that in a way that was highly suggestive and, to his mortification, Charles felt a flush stain his cheek.

“I should know that, huh?” the man said, smirking a little as he turned to face Charles fully for the first time. He was strangely handsome, despite his careless deportment. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He watched Charles for a moment before then shaking his head and going back to his ale. “Wouldn’t do you a lick o’ good ‘round here, though,” he said, his tone once again cool and measured. “I don’t exactly see any _rapiers_ on you now. ‘Sides, we don’t really go in for that kind of stuff around these parts. Not so many rules, see? We don’t go in for all that fancy stuff … we prefer to get our hands _dirty_.”

Something about the way he said the last word made Charles feel slightly flustered but he refused to show it. “I-” he began, starting to protest, before frowning and then quickly shutting his mouth again. “Well. Thank you for your concern. I am grateful for your advice.” He slowly took a step back. “Now, if you will excuse me, I think I will just-”

“Have we met before?” he man said abruptly, interrupting him.

Charles halted at the sudden question and blinked, nonplussed. He turned to face the stranger, who was now regarding him coolly, all traces of humour gone from his face. “What?” he asked, puzzled. 

“Have we met before?” the man asked again. His eyes were fixed on Charles’s face, scrutinising him closely, and his nostrils were flared as if he were trying to literally sniff out any falsehoods that Charles might tell.

Charles frowned and shook his head. “No,” he said, his brow furrowed. “No, of course not. I can quite truthfully say that we have never met before.” He paused. “I think I would have remembered if we had,” he said, surprising himself with his own honesty.

Charles almost expected the man to make a joke out of that but the stranger said nothing. He merely stared at Charles closely, his eyes bright and piercing from underneath his bushy eyebrows. Just when the scrutiny was becoming more than a little awkward, the man finally leaned back and released Charles from his gaze, his expression easy once more. 

“Huh,” he said, eyeing Charles lazily. “Guess I musta been mistaken then.”

Charles watched him for a moment before folding his arms across his chest. “Yes,” he said coolly, “You must.”

The man huffed out a laugh at that. “No need to get all prickly about it,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s an easy mistake to make.”

Charles refused to be riled. “I wasn’t getting prickly,” he said coolly, quirking an eyebrow. “I was just pointing out that you were _wrong_. Now,” he said, ignoring the look of amusement on the other man’s face, “if you will excuse me—” he picked up his tankard and, raising it to his lips, promptly swallowed the last of his ale down, “I think I’ll be off now.” And, before the stranger could say anything further, Charles had stepped away from the bar, strode past the other patrons, and had walked straight out of the tavern.

He paused once he was over the threshold, stopping to take in a long, deep breath. He hesitated for a moment, his head twitching to the side as if to look back. Then the wind blew and, with a shiver, Charles pulled his dress coat closer around him. The moment gone, he straightened his back and, his arms crossed firmly across his chest, he headed back to his rooms, the moon shining down brightly on his bowed head as he passed underneath.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan and Charles meet again.

Logan sat at the table, tankard of ale in his hands, with his eyes directed firmly at the door. He had been sitting there for some time now, waiting for a certain someone to arrive, but so far his efforts appeared to have been in vain. Luckily for him, some small semblance of patience had somehow managed to work its way into his system over the centuries, and hey, it wasn’t as if sitting around in a bar and drinking beer wasn’t something that he wouldn’t have been doing otherwise. The only way in which Logan was deviating from his usual behaviour was in the fact that he had returned to the same tavern for the second day in a row and, perhaps more surprisingly, the fact that he was now seated at a table with two chairs instead of at the bar with his back to the room.

The cause of his deviation was the stranger that he had encountered the night before. Logan didn’t usually pay much attention to strangers – not unless they looked like they might be trouble – and the boy ( _man_ , really, he was a _man_ , but to Logan most men looked like boys, and this one did more so than many others) had looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his pleasantly-tipsy little English mouth. He had been nice to look at, sure (and that was its own set of troubles, as Logan knew all too well) but all in all there didn’t seem to be anything overly remarkable about him, aside from the oddity of seeing a well-to-do young Englishman in the sort of watering hole that Logan regularly visited.

No, the reason that Logan was struck by the Englishman had nothing to do with his pretty face or his strange foreign traits. What had interested him, instead, was the man’s scent.

He had smelled that scent before. He knew it. He didn’t know where and he didn’t know when, but he knew that he was not mistaken. It was impossible – or, at least, highly unlikely. His nose was keener than all the rest of his pack’s; keener, even, than Victor’s, and that was saying something. He held it as matter of pride that he never forgot a scent and he had never been wrong even once, not even after all these centuries. The probability that he was wrong about this now was all but impossible.

Which was why the Englishman’s presence was maddening to him. The scent had smelled familiar to him and he was sure that he had encountered it before … but that was all. He couldn’t place the smell at all. He couldn’t even tell if it was a scent particular to the man or whether it was some additional smell that had attached itself to him. All he knew was that it was a scent that he had encountered before, and that he had done so a very long time ago. To tell more, he would need to encounter the scent again.

Which was why he was now back in the same tavern that he had visited the day before, sitting at a table with his back to the wall, watching for the subject of his quandary to walk in again. He could not be sure that he would return, of course, but he felt it was a reasonable enough conjecture, from what he had overheard between the kid and the owner of the tavern. 

As time passed by, however, he became a little less sure. It was already late evening, and although Logan didn’t plan on leaving any time soon, he could not help but become slightly discouraged with every hour that passed without the Englishman making an appearance.

He let out a sigh and decided to order another beer. He rose from his table, taking his empty mug with him, and approached the bar while still keeping one eye on the door. The bartender looked at him suspiciously as he poured out what had to be Logan’s tenth beer in succession, but as he didn’t find any signs of drunkenness in Logan’s features, he simply shrugged and handed the tankard over, a reluctant sort of respect apparent on his face. 

Logan let out a grunt and returned to his seat. Drunkenness had never been an issue with him. It wasn’t as if he was actually capable of it.

He had just taken the first sip of his drink when there was a movement from the doorway and, glancing up, Logan laid eyes on the very person that he had been waiting for.

He watched as the stranger from the night before entered the tavern and Logan regarded him silently as he paused at the threshold, looking almost uncertain as he glanced about. Then his eyes fell on Logan and a strange expression crossed his face. It was only there for a fraction of a second but in that time Logan thought he saw … gladness?

Keeping his expression blank, Logan watched as the Englishman hesitated for a moment before raising his chin and making his way towards him, his steps rapid and his expression set. He paused just as he reached Logan’s table, stopping abruptly a few steps away as if he did not quite know what to say now that he was there.

Logan didn’t react. He just continued to watch him, raising his tankard and taking a long, slow sip of ale while maintaining eye contact.

It was a moment before the other man spoke.

“Hello,” he said, his tone halfway between hesitance and defiance.

Logan lowered his tankard. “Huh,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “So you decided to show up then.”

The young man blinked. “Were you waiting for me?” he asked, sounding surprised.

Logan barely refrained from scowling. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said gruffly. “A man can drink where he wants, can’t he?”

“Well – yes. Of course.” The Englishman looked slightly uncomfortable, as if suddenly unsure what he was doing there, and he took a half-step backwards. “I didn’t mean to suggest that-”

“Forget about it,” Logan grunted, realising that curtness was perhaps not the best tactic to employ in this particular instance. He nodded towards the chair opposite him and then looked at the Englishman. “Well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You gonna sit down or what?”

The young man looked slightly bewildered by Logan’s indecipherable behaviour. Even so, he took the seat opposite Logan just as he’d been told, watching Logan with a set of intelligent – if not a little puzzled – blue eyes.

Logan met his gaze calmly.

The Englishman fidgeted for a moment. Then, straightening up with a determined look on his face, he spoke. “Why did you think that you had met me before?” he asked, curiosity evident in his voice. It was clear that this was something that had been preying on his mind.

Logan slowly reached up to scratch his jaw even as his nostrils flared almost unconsciously to take in the man’s scent once more. Yup, he decided after a brief inhale, still vaguely familiar. “I dunno,” he said aloud, shrugging lightly. “Guess you just have one of those faces.”

The other man didn’t seem to be particularly satisfied by this answer. “One of those faces,” he repeated flatly, looking suspicious. 

Logan shrugged again. “It happens,” he said casually. “My mistake.”

“I know,” the Englishman’s tone was wry. “We decided as much last night.”

“Hmm,” Logan eyed him over the table. “Yeah, well, I didn’t mean to trouble you none,” he said calmly, scratching at his jaw again. It was best to get away from this line of conversation as quickly as possible, he decided. Luckily, he knew just how to do that. “I guess I owe you a drink to make up for that, huh.”

The young man looked slightly surprised by this and he quickly shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said firmly. “It was an honest mistake to make. No harm done.”

“Still,” Logan shrugged. “Let me get you a drink.”

The kid frowned. “I don’t think that’s—” he began but Logan interrupted him.

“Never say no when another man offers you a drink, bub,” he said gruffly, shaking his head. “Most folks would say that’s unnatural. Specially round these parts.”

“Oh,” the Englishman hesitated at that. His eyes flickered over to Logan’s. “Well, if you’re sure …”

Logan rolled his eyes before turning to catch the eye of the bartender and raising two of his fingers. The boy sat there patiently, eyeing Logan warily as they waited for their drinks. After a minute or two, a harried barmaid came over with two foaming tankards of ale and set them down heavily on the table in front of them. Logan deposited a few coins in her hand with a nod of thanks before turning his attention back to the table. The kid was sitting stiffly, and Logan snorted when he realised that he was waiting for Logan to pick up his drink first, as if there was some sort of fancy etiquette to go along with occasions like these.

“No need to wait for me,” he said, smirking even as he reached out for his tankard. “Or ain’t you all that thirsty?”

The Englishman’s mouth twisted slightly at that but he nevertheless reached forward to take up his drink, lifting it once in a wry salute to Logan, before bringing it down to his lips.

Satisfied by this, Logan raised his own tankard and, eyes still fixed on the Englishman, took a long, satisfying drink.

“So,” the young man said a moment later, after they had both taken a few sips of ale, his shoulders straight and his eyes keen. “As it appears that we are both going to be sitting here for quite some time, I believe that an introduction is in order.” He raised his eyes to Logan’s and said, with an almost disarming honesty, “I would very much like to know the name of my new acquaintance.”

Logan paused at that and then slowly lowered his mug of ale away from his mouth and set it down upon the table. He watched the other man closely for a moment before leaning back in his chair.

“I got a couple of names that I use,” he mused, scratching at his chin. “Some more than others, depending on where I am.” His eyes suddenly flicked over to Charles, and he eyed him thoughtfully. “You though,” he said slowly. “I guess you can call me Logan.”

The young man smiled at that. It was a small, almost hesitant smile but it was a smile nonetheless. “Hello Logan,” he said quietly. “My name is Charles.”

Logan inclined his head. “Charles, huh?” he rolled the name around his tongue, contemplating it for a moment. Then he snorted. “Figures.”

Charles’s brow immediately furrowed. “What do you mean by that?” he asked suspiciously.

Logan shrugged. “Ain’t everybody from your side of the Channel called Charles?”

“No, they are most certainly not!” Charles sounded indignant.

“Ah well,” Logan said, not too put out by this. “My mistake.”

“You certainly make a lot of those,” Charles observed, a trifle mulishly.

Logan grinned at that. “Only ‘round you, Chuck,” he drawled, and took a long swig of his beer, still smirking.

Charles rolled his eyes. “If you say so,” he said, obviously too polite to challenge this.

Logan glanced over at him, amused. “You don’t believe me?”

‘Oh no,’ Charles’s said dryly, even as his lips twitched almost against his will. “I am fully ready to believe that you make an unprecedented number of mistakes around me.”

“Yeah, well,” Logan let out a huff, “At least I admit to them.”

“I suppose it _does_ take strength of character to admit to making a mistake,” Charles allowed. He turned to Logan with a raised eyebrow. “You have that much going for you, at least.”

Logan snorted at that. “Shows what you know,” he said, taking another swig of ale.

“Are you contesting my belief in your strength of character or the implication that you have little else working in your favour?”

Logan’s eyebrows rose. “You really have to ask?”

Charles chuckled at that. “Perhaps not.” He was silent for a moment, during which he eyed Logan thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side. “Why _did_ you speak to me yesterday?” he asked apropos of nothing.

The question, abrupt as it was, caught Logan unawares. He frowned. “How do you mean?” he asked cautiously.

Charles leaned back in his seat and Logan could see the clear glimmer of intelligence that flared in his eyes. “Forgive me for saying so, my friend, but you do not appear to be the most _sociable_ of men,” he said almost apologetically. “You are not, I think, someone who seeks out companionship as a matter of course.” He paused, as if waiting for Logan’s response.

“You ain’t entirely wrong,” Logan conceded after a beat, watching Charles carefully.

“Right,” Charles smiled. “I didn’t think so. No, you appear to me to be the sort of person who enjoys his solitude far more than any form of companionship.” He paused. “Which begs the question … what made you speak to me last night?”

Logan scowled. “I told you,” he grumbled. “I thought I knew you. Turns out that I don’t.”

“But why didn’t you start with that?” Charles persisted, leaning forward with a bright glint in his eye. 

Logan frowned. “How d’you mean?” he grunted, feeling a little irked.

“Well, you could have asked me right away whether we were acquainted. Instead you started up a conversation and only chose to ask your question when I was about to leave …”

Logan eyed him for a moment, his expression indecipherable. “You live in a very straightforward kind of world, huh, kid?” he said at last, leaning back in his chair.

Charles smiled thinly at that. “Not at all,” he said blithely, although his expression was little better than a grimace. He raised an eyebrow. “And I am not a kid.”

“Hmm,” Logan watched him for a moment, silent. Then he sighed. “Do you know what you need?” he asked after a minute. He was mildly surprised to see that Charles’s spine stiffened ever so subtly at the question, and as he inhaled, Logan’s nose picked up the tiniest flavour of apprehension. Huh, he thought to himself. That’s a question the kid has heard before. And not one that he’d care to hear again, it seemed.

“No,” Charles answered cautiously after a moment, holding himself a little stiffly as he looked at Logan across the table. “What is it exactly that I need?”

Logan pushed all other thoughts aside and just raised a single eyebrow. “Another drink,” he said simply, nodding towards the now empty tankard in front of Charles and smirking a little. “And guess what,” he lifted his own tankard to his lips and, eyes still on Charles, drained it all in one go, before lowering it and giving Charles a wide, sharp-toothed smile. “You’re buying.”

He watched as Charles relaxed at that, rolling his eyes with relative good-humour before rising from his seat to go and do as he was bid. Logan kept his eyes on him as he made his way towards the bar, his gait slow and measured and with just the tiniest hint of swagger that all handsome, rich and entitled young things unconsciously possessed.

The kid was a puzzle, Logan mused as he eyed Charles’s easy interaction with the gruff bartender. His scent was familiar, yes, but now that he had met him properly, Logan was sure that this was the first time that he had ever encountered the young man. The knowledge set him at ease, somewhat. It was likely that Logan was simply confusing his scent for someone else’s … or – more likely, because Logan’s nose was never wrong – he had somehow crossed paths with one of Charles’s ancestors a very long time ago and it was that association of shared blood that had called to him, evoking a sense of familiarity.

Yes, Logan decided. That was probably what it was. He had travelled to Britain, a long time ago, so it was possible that he had encountered Charles’s ancestor there. And, of course, there was also the possibility that Charles’s relation might have travelled to the Continent and come across Logan by some chance or the other. It was something that he probably ought to ask Charles, he reflected, about whether or not he knew of any old relations who had a fondness for travel.

Not that it mattered too much either way. Now that they had met, Logan thought it highly unlikely that Charles was any sort of a threat to him, whatever the reason for his familiar scent. By all rights, he could walk away right now with a clear mind and a reasonable certainty that neither he nor his pack was in any sort of danger. He could just get up and leave and that would be the end of that.

His eyes flickered over to the bar.

Maybe he ought to stay a little while longer, he mused. It couldn’t hurt to stick around for a little while and get some more information out of the kid. He paused, watching as Charles turned away from the bar and slowly made his way towards their table with two foaming tankards of beer in his hands. 

Well. He couldn’t exactly get up and leave now.

After all, he reflected wryly as Charles approached with a look of deep concentration on his face, everyone knew that it was all kinds of unnatural to turn it down when someone was offering you a free drink.

*****

Although they had got off to a rather stilted start, the second round of ale heralded the start of a change between Logan and his new acquaintance. Suddenly they were no longer wary, awkward strangers; they were, instead, friends – or as close as one could come to such after having spent an evening together deep in their cups. In truth, Logan wasn’t entirely certain whether or not they could be classed as friends yet, the entire situation being an unusual one for him. In fact, he could not recall having sat down to drink with a human for well over a century, much preferring to drink in solitude, if not with his pack. The credit for his change in behaviour in this particular instance therefore, Logan knew, belonged entirely to his new friend Charles.

Charles – Charles Xavier, as Logan soon found his name to be – was, for the lack of a better word, a gentleman. He was charming and pleasant and completely genuine and, once Charles allowed himself to relax in the presence of a stranger, a great deal different to what Logan had been expecting from an Englishman of noble birth and means. Indeed, he found himself caught off-guard by Charles’s entire manner. He was arch and wry but also kind and patient, and, even more surprisingly, he seemed to be genuinely interested in listening to Logan. 

That was in itself unusual. Yes, Logan’s pack listened to him when he was barking orders at them, but it was rare that anyone actually _listened_ to him. In fact, it had been such a long time since Logan had talked just for the sake of talking, that it felt almost as if he had forgotten how it all worked. Charles didn’t seem to notice, however, and simply went on speaking, seeming to be perfectly content with Logan’s gruff and limited contributions. Logan wasn’t deluded enough to believe that he was any sort of great wit, and he was probably nowhere near Charles’s usual standard of conversation partner, but still – it was … _nice_. Nice, just like everything else about Charles Xavier.

This was not the only thing that he found unusual about his new acquaintance, however. Charles, much to Logan’s surprise, seemed to have no sense of reservation whatsoever. He spoke freely, as if he and Logan were friends of old, instead of mere acquaintances who had just met the day before. He had plenty of anecdotes and thoughts and memories, which he willingly shared with Logan, who found his freeness and generosity with information rather baffling. Charles, on the other hand, seemed to think nothing of it.

As they conversed, however, Logan became aware that perhaps he hadn’t been entirely correct about Charles’s complete lack of reservation. 

Charles was a skilled conversationalist: that much was clear. So skilled, in fact, that it was only after several mugs of ale that Logan was starting to realise that Charles was cannily navigating the conversation with unassailable ease and finesse, steering it in the way in which he desired – or, to be more exact, steering it _away_ from those topics that he did not wish to talk about. 

Family, was one such topic. Not his sister – he was more than willing to talk about _her_ , for the most part. But his mother was barely mentioned at all, and his step-father was omitted almost completely.

This was not what Logan found strange, however. Such things were personal, and a man had the right to keep that sort of thing close to the chest if he wanted to – especially in front of a stranger. But the more he listened, the more Logan became aware of the fact that Charles was keeping something – an otherwise minor and insignificant something – back from him. 

Charles wouldn’t talk about the purpose of his travels. It had taken him a while to put his finger on it, but there it was. Sure, Charles had spouted some line about unrest back at home and the desire to escape it, but that had just sounded like what it was – a line. Charles didn’t seem the sort to run away from danger, and the fact that the rest of his family wasn’t with him made his explanation seem doubtful. His lack of concern was also something of a hint as to his falsehood, and he furthermore seemed like a man altogether untroubled by personal worries, a fact that did not tally with his tale of self-imposed exile.

Logan mulled these thoughts over, making to sure to eye Charles closely as he talked on. He was currently relating an amusing little anecdote about sea-sickness and his personal distaste for travelling by ship, laughing rather self-deprecatingly at his own weak stomach. Logan listened coolly for a few minutes before deciding to interrupt.

“Sounds like something that you ought to be avoiding, then,” he said casually, taking a sip of his drink. “Travelling by ship and all.”

Charles smiled ruefully. “You are right,” he admitted. “But unfortunately, such things cannot always be avoided. It is one of the perils of living on an island nation, you see,” he explained with a sigh. “You are cut off from all the rest of the world. It takes a devil of a time to reach anywhere else and, until the day that man learns to traverse the skies, I am afraid that we must confine ourselves to the seas.”

“Still,” Logan said, non-committal. “Must’ve been something all kinds of important for you to put yourself through all that.”

Charles blinked. “Oh,” he said, gathering his wits about him with an effort. The ale seemed to be having some effect on him. “Well – yes. Fear for one’s life does tend to put things in perspective, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I guess it would,” Logan scratched his chin. “If one’s life was in danger, like you said.” He put a certain emphasis on the word ‘if’.

Charles gave him a sharp look at that, his piercing gaze cutting through the light-headedness brought on by the ale. “What do you mean by that?” he asked warily.

Logan shrugged. “Nothing,” he said, taking a large swallow of ale before lowering his tankard and meeting Charles’s eyes. “Just that I don’t believe that you’re being all that truthful about why you’re out here.”

“You doubt my word?” Charles demanded, but Logan could see the note of apprehension in his eyes. “Do you think me a liar?”

Logan shrugged. “No,” he said honestly. “I don’t think that you’re a liar. I just think that you are lying about _this_.”

Charles tensed. “And what is it to you even if I am?” he demanded, his spine suddenly ramrod straight and his body braced as if for impact. “What could you possibly gain from such an accusation?” He eyed Logan with suspicion, looking for all the world like he was contemplating making a drastic move of some sort. “In what way is this at all your business?”

Logan quickly held his hands up. “Whoa there,” he said, gentling his tone. “Believe me, kid, I ain’t looking for any trouble. If you don’t want to tell then that’s fine by me.” He shrugged. “Just thought that you might like to talk things out, if you wanted to … that’s all.”

Charles didn’t say anything for a long moment. He watched Logan instead, his gaze surprisingly strong and unwavering for a man who had consumed quite so much ale. 

Finally, Charles let out a sigh. “You really want to know?” he asked, biting his lip.

Logan shrugged. “Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” he said simply.

Charles nodded, frowning a little. He glanced over at Logan once more and then took a deep breath, before speaking. “You were right,” he said, giving Logan a wry smile. “I wasn’t being truthful about why I am here. Not for any underhand reason, I assure you, but simply because I thought it would be simpler – that I would be less open to ridicule – if I were to do so rather than if I offered up the true reason for my travels.”

“… The true reason,” Logan repeated, his tone deliberately neutral. “And what _is_ the true reason?”

Charles licked his lips, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he leaned forward eagerly. “I’m here looking for something,” he said in a quiet whisper, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. “I’m here to find the _fantastic_.”

Logan blinked. Well. That wasn’t what he had been expecting.

“… Fantastic, huh?” he said after beat. “Well then,” he raised an eyebrow, “you don’t have to look far for that.” His lips twitched as he gestured at himself with a smirk. “I’m sitting right here.”

Charles stared at him and then let out a bright laugh. “Perhaps it is more accurate to say the _fantastical_ , rather than the fantastic,” he amended, his lips quirking up as he looked at Logan. “Although I am sure that you are quite fantastic in every single way.” His eyes dipped down Logan’s form in a way that Logan couldn’t decide whether deliberate or unconscious.

He couldn’t say that he objected either way.

Clearing his throat, he returned to the subject at hand. “Fantastical,” he repeated slowly. “So what, you’re searching for fairies or something?”

“Not quite,” Charles said with a slight chuckle. “Although I wouldn’t object to meeting a few if I happen to come across any on my travels. But no – not quite. You see, I’m looking for a certain kind of fantastic: I am searching for the _strange_ and the _unnatural_. Well – what _others_ may consider unnatural. That’s why I am here, you see,” he glanced about the tavern. “Because my search has led me here.”

“Your search led you to a tavern?” Logan asked doubtfully.

Charles laughed at that. “Well, as a matter of fact – yes! You don’t believe me, I know,” he said, chuckling at Logan’s expression. “But it’s the truth. You see that group of locals over there?” He carefully pointed to where a group of older citizens were gathered around the hearth. “I’ve been listening to them for a few days now and hearing all their stories.”

“Rather you than me,” Logan muttered under his breath.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Charles said loudly over his muttering. “I’ve found out some very interesting things from them.”

Logan’s bushy eyebrows went up. “Oh really?” he drawled.

“Yes,” Charles’s expression was earnest and eager. “They have been speaking to me about the strange happenings that are said to occur a little south of here.”

Logan snorted. “Strange happenings,” he repeated, his tone sardonic. “What strange happenings?”

“Witches,” Charles responded with relish. “And magic and demons and hell-hounds.” He saw the look that Logan was giving him and smiled. “Yes, yes, I am well aware that the majority of these stories are simply superstition and fantasy. And you know, of course, that I hold little truck with religion, making all this talk of demons and hell-hounds nonsensical to me.”

“But?” Logan pre-empted him.

“But,” Charles inclined his head, “I am hoping that there is a grain of truth to these legends. That what people think of as myths are-”

“Are what?” Logan sounded amused. “Real?”

“Well, why not?” Charles demanded, lifting his chin proudly. “They must have come from somewhere. Besides,” he shifted, suddenly cagey. “Sometimes people simply do not have the capacity to understand what it is that they are seeing.”

Logan glanced up at him at that. “You think so?” he asked casually.

Charles gave him a firm nod. “Very much so,” he said earnestly. He took sip of his drink. “In fact, there may be things out there that are just as natural as you or I, but because people have never seen such things before or are scared by what they can do, they call them strange and unnatural and demonic.”

“Huh,” Logan eyed Charles thoughtfully, a new sense of evaluation in his gaze. “So what you’re saying is that these beasts and monsters that the old folks have been talking about aren’t actually demons from hell?”

“Precisely!” Charles beamed. “That is exactly it! People just _think_ they are demonic and ungodly because they are afraid and do not know any better.”

“But you do?”

Charles hesitated for a moment. His eyes flickered over to Logan uncertainly. He seemed to be immediately reassured by Logan’s calm and expectant gaze, however, as he straightened up with renewed enthusiasm and leaned closer, as if imparting a confidence.

Charles licked his lips before speaking. “I have a theory,” he said, his eyes shining. 

Logan’s expression didn’t change. “Oh yeah?” he said coolly. “What about?”

“Those hell-beasts that people have seen and heard,” Charles licked his lips again in what Logan felt was a very distracting manner. “I don’t think that they are hell-beasts at all. You see, I think that they’re—” He paused abruptly, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?” he asked, giving Charles a pointed look. “You were saying?”

Charles didn’t speak for a moment. Then he opened his mouth. “I think they’re lycanthropes,” he blurted.

Logan immediately stiffened. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. “Lycanthropes, huh?” he grunted. “As in …”

“Werewolves,” Charles breathed, unable to rein in his excitement. 

Logan felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He forced himself to rally. “Werewolves, huh?” he grunted. “And what’s wrong with normal wolves?”

“They aren’t to be found in this part of the country,” Charles said eagerly, leaning forward. “I have read several dissertations on the subject and I assure you – every single one of them said that wolves have not been sighted in these parts for hundreds of years!”

“So obviously it _can’t_ have been a normal wolf that people saw,” Logan drawled, emphasising his disdain. “Because it says so in some book. _Obviously_ it has to be some kind of mutt from hell instead.”

Charles flushed at that. “You are being glib,” he accused, his tone simultaneously haughty and reproachful. “You can hardly think that this would be my only evidence?”

Logan raised his hands in a sign of peace. “Then by all means …” he murmured, gesturing for Charles to go on. 

“Well,” Charles began haughtily, straightening himself up to his full height – which, Logan was amused to see, was really not that high at all, “For one, there are the descriptions.”

“The descriptions …” Logan repeated.

“Several people have seen these beasts up close,” Charles said, soon losing his defensiveness in the face of his enthusiasm. “And they all give the same account: that these animals – these _wolves_ – are larger than normal wolves, that they’re fiercer, wilder, more terrible than normal wolves …”

Logan let out a snort. “And how would they know that?” he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. “What with wolves being so scarce in these parts and all?”

Charles frowned at him at that, the expression surprisingly petulant. “I’m sure that the people here have come across a few wolves in their time,” he said defensively. “When … travelling, and what not.” He waved his hand carelessly. “Anyway, that’s not all.”

“Course not,” Logan said dryly.

“The reports also speak of unusual intelligence,” Charles said, straightening up. Logan watched with a frown as he took a deep drink from his tankard. “A frightening intelligence, in fact.” He gave Logan a pointed look. “I would even go so far as to say a _human_ intelligence.” His eyebrows rose significantly.

Logan frowned at this, trying not to show any signs of anxiety. “That doesn’t mean anything,” he said with a deliberately casual shrug. “Wolves are intelligent beasts. Even without being – what was it you said? – _fantastical_.”

Charles scowled. “People have reported that they are intelligent,” he persisted stubbornly. “That they communicate … that they have a _leader_.”

Logan shrugged. “Isn’t that how all packs work?” he asked, knowing full well that his dismissive attitude was only irking his companion further.

Charles tossed his head. “People have seen paw prints – larger than a man’s foot!” he said, folding his arms.

“So there are large wolves running around,” Logan shrugged again. “That don’t seem all that unnatural to me.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed. “Then how about this,” he leaned forward, as if about to play his trump card. “These sightings that people have,” he said in a low voice, his eyes bright and intent as he gazed at Logan. “They aren’t random.”

Logan frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked, feeling slightly uneasy.

A flash of triumph appeared in Charles’s eyes. “They all take place at night,” he said, his expression eager and his red lips wet and shiny. “And not just on _any_ night, mind—” He paused dramatically. “They all take place on the night of the full moon!”

Logan paused. This one was … a little more difficult to explain. The changes of his kind were, in general, not restricted to the nights of the full moon but that did not mean that they were not tied to it. Only the youngsters of their kind – those who had yet to reach their first quarter of a century as a wolf – were limited to changing on the full moon, but even the older wolves were not altogether immune from its effects. Something about those nights filled them with a fearlessness and euphoria that burned through their veins, and it was on these nights that the pack ran together, truly coming together as they never otherwise did in the time between. It was on these nights, therefore, when the entire pack was together and buoyed by the moon, that they were the most frequently sighted.

It was also on these nights that they were at their most dangerous.

Charles made a sound of satisfaction from across the table and Logan realised with a start that he had left the silence too long.

“You see,” Charles said smugly. “You have no answer to this, my friend!”

Logan quickly shook his head. “Coincidence,” he grunted out. “The shared delusions of people who don’t know better.”

“You assume, of course, that _you_ know better.”

“On this subject?” Logan raised an eyebrow. “I know I do.”

Both of Charles’s eyebrows shot up in return. “Is that so?”

Logan nodded.

Charles shook his head. “Well you’re wrong,” he said decisively, taking a large swig of ale. “And I don’t need you to tell me otherwise. All you need to know is that I have my suspicions and that I intend to investigate the matter further.”

Logan frowned at that, trying to suppress his feelings of consternation at Charles’s announcement. “Are you sure you are being completely … _rational_ about this?” he asked slowly, trying to hide his disquiet and trying instead to challenge Charles about his decision. “That you want to go ahead and pursue this … _this_?” He hesitated. “Are you sure you aren’t just seeing what you want to see?” he asked gently.

Charles’s eyes immediately narrowed at him. “I am not some naïve young fool, sir,” he said proudly, lifting his chin, and Logan could see from his loose movements that the ale was now truly getting to him. “I am a practitioner of logic and reason and – and _science_. Yes, science! If I am interested in something it is for _scientific purposes_ , I assure you, and _not_ just because I have a blue sister who does not know how to leave a man a decent sort of clue whilst encouraging him to go traipsing about Europe and frequenting taverns with handsome older men—”

Logan blinked. “What?” he said blankly.

But Charles wasn’t finished. “And quite frankly, sir, I do not think it at all gentlemanly of you to question my authority on such matters when _I_ am a scientific investigator and you are – you are—” Charles blinked. He turned to face Logan. “What are you, anyway?”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Many things,” he said with a wry twist to his lips. “But I guess that you could say that I was a hunter.”

“Really?” Charles blinked at him with wide eyes. “Well, I ought to have guessed! Tell me though – have _you_ ever seen any wolves about?”

Logan couldn’t resist the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, maybe one or two,” he said vaguely, amused by the look of interest on Charles’s face. “Can’t say that they were particularly intelligent, though.”

Charles’s face dropped. “You tease me,” he said in an injured manner.

“Not at all,” Logan smirked. “Just ‘cause _I_ haven’t seen any magical wolves running around doesn’t mean that they’re not out there.”

Charles’s expression crumpled. “You are determined to find fault with me, aren’t you?” he said unhappily, looking away.

Logan felt a strange stirring of guilt within his chest at that. “No,” he relented, shaking his head quickly. “Not with you. Just with your … theories.”

“Ah,” Charles struggled to sit up. “But if you take issue with my scientific theories, sir, then you also take issue with _me_!”

Logan watched for a minute as Charles swayed dangerously on his seat. “Maybe you’d better stop with the drinking now, kid,” he said levelly, as Charles almost fell out of his seat.

“Aha!” Charles raised his hand triumphantly. “You are avoiding the question! I knew it!”

“Is that right?” Logan asked patiently.

“Yes!” Charles exclaimed, before frowning. “I knew … I knew that …” He looked down at himself, his expression bleary and confused. ‘Well,’ he said, sounding a little bewildered. “Pardon me, my friend, but I think that I am going to be rather violently ill.” And with that he was suddenly on his feet and running out of the tavern, his hand clutched to his mouth as he staggered on.

Logan blinked at the now empty seat in front of him. He stared at it for a moment, scowling as he debated something fiercely with himself. A moment later, he let out a sigh. Then, with a small curse under his breath, he levered himself to his feet and started on out of the tavern and after Charles. 

It wouldn’t be right to leave him on his own, he reasoned. Not in the state that he was in, and definitely not around these parts where people wouldn’t think twice about taking advantage of a young, handsome, well-to-do Englishman. 

He just didn’t want to have that sort of thing on his conscience, he thought as he left the building. That was all it was. It wouldn’t be right. Especially since it was possibly – _probably_ – his fault that Charles was now in the state that he was in. Logan was fair: he could take the responsibility for the things that were his fault.

After all, he thought with a sigh as he watched Charles empty his stomach against the wall of the tavern, he might not have been a gentleman, but that didn’t mean that he was a _complete_ animal.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Logan's association continues.

Charles woke up the next morning with a throbbing head and a foul taste in his mouth. He groaned as the sunlight hit his face and he determinedly turned on his side and nuzzled into his hard pillow, trying to do his best to fall back asleep as soon as possible.

This plan, however, was thwarted when said pillow began to speak.

“That bad, huh kid?”

Charles sprang from the bed in alarm, his aching head and limbs forgotten for a brief, frenzied moment. 

A familiar man lounged back in the bed, shirtless, his muscled body providing a glaring distraction from the smug smirk on his lips. Charles blinked for a moment, his eyes stuck fast to the man’s gleaming chest, before propriety demanded that he forcibly yank them away. Composing himself, he blinked the last of the sleep out of his eyes and finally directed his gaze to the man’s face. 

“Back with us, then?” the man sounded amused.

Logan, Charles recalled all at once. His name was Logan. 

“I—” he began, when a cool breeze across his chest abruptly brought to his attention the fact that he too was shirtless – and indeed, dressed in nothing but his underclothes. Charles was not a bashful man by any means, but he suddenly found his cheeks suffused by a flush, awkwardness overtaking him at his apparent dishabille. This flush darkened when he saw the man on his bed – _Logan_ – give him a slow, satisfied smile. 

“I—” Charles cleared his throat before swallowing. “Did – surely we did not … _do_ anything, did we?” He eyed Logan warily out of the corner of his eye. It was not that he was not particularly _opposed_ to the idea; it was merely that he found the fact that he could not remember anything of the night before slightly disturbing.

Logan’s eyebrows drew together, as if he were confused. “How do you mean?” he asked, cocking his head to the right.

Charles floundered. “Well,” he said awkwardly, uncertain of how to phrase such a thing. “I just … well, our mutual state of undress is very suggestive of … and the fact that we shared a bed together …” he trailed off helplessly.

Logan returned his stare, regarding Charles with an unreadable expression. “Huh,” he said after a moment.

“What?” Charles said at once, feeling incredibly self-conscious.

Logan raised a shoulder. “Nothing,” he said casually, although his eyes remained focused on Charles. “Just – that’s not exactly something that most people worry about when there’s just two men in the room.”

Charles blanched.

Logan watched him panic in silence for a moment before letting out a snort. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he said gruffly, shaking his head. “I’m not about to out you. What a man enjoys doing in his own time isn’t anyone’s business but his own. Besides,” he added with a short smirk. “S’not as if you were imagining it all, anyway.” He turned and gave Charles a slow, appreciative glance. “I was open to it.”

Charles, whose panic was slowly receding, felt another awkward flush rise to his cheeks at the obvious interest in the other man’s gaze. Feeling a little braver, he glanced up at Logan with a tentative smile. “Yes, well,” he murmured, meeting Logan’s eyes. “I am not sure I would have objected, myself.”

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifted up at that. “Pity you overdid it last night then,” he said in a low voice that made Charles’s stomach clench with an unexpected sensation of deep desire. “Then perhaps we could have found out for sure.”

Their eyes met and they held each other’s gaze for a moment. Then Charles remembered that he was mostly undressed and he coughed as his cheeks reddened once more. “As much as I would like to test that theory, I fear that I am rather unfortunately lacking in liquid courage at the present,” he said, giving Logan a rueful smile that quickly turned into a grimace as his aching head once again made itself known. “Not to mention the lack of something to cure this wretched pain in my skull.”

Logan’s slightly smug expression twisted into a frown. “You okay there, kid?” he asked, watching Charles with a furrowed brow. 

“Yes, yes,” Charles hastened to reassure him, feeling oddly warmed at the show of concern. “It is nothing to worry about, I assure you – I often get these headaches when I have indulged too much.”

Logan grunted. “Yeah,” he rubbed the back of his neck in a way that on any other man would have looked sheepish. As it was, all it served to do was highlight his impressively muscled physique, and Charles, who had always been an admirer of aesthetic beauty, could not find much to complain of at the sight. “That might have been my fault, I think.”

“I would have to agree,” Charles said dryly. He then let out a loud yawn, blinking his eyes as his mouth closed. “What time is it anyway, do you know?”

Logan shrugged. “Nope,” he said. “But as far as I can tell it’s still early, what with it being mostly dark outside and all.”

“Oh.” Charles blinked. His gaze drifted down longingly to the bed. “I see.”

Logan seemed to notice the direction of his gaze for his eyebrows rose. “You going to get in here or what?” he asked lightly, tilting his head towards the other side of the bed.

Charles hesitated.

Logan waited for a moment and then rolled his eyes. “What, you’re worried about your virtue now?” he drawled. “Or are you forgetting that we just spent most of the night all tangled up together all chaste-like?”

Charles huffed out a rueful laugh. “No,” he said with a wry smile. “I can quite honestly say that I have not forgotten it at all.”

Logan gave him a pointed look and then gestured at the space on the bed next to him. “Well,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Charles didn’t need to be asked twice. “Very well,” he said magnanimously, trying to hide the smile on his face as he approached the bed. “Since you insist.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Whatever gets the job done, your princeliness,” he muttered and settled himself down in the bed. 

“It is ‘your lordship’, actually,” Charles said lightly as he carefully clambered onto the bed, careful not to brush too closely against Logan as he lay down. “But I wouldn’t expect an uncouth peasant such as yourself to be familiar with the finer points of English nobility.”

Logan snorted at that. “I guess you will just have to educate me, then,” he said easily, his tone suggestive.

“Yes,” Charles murmured as he pulled the covers up around him, his eyelids beginning to droop. “Perhaps I will.”

A minute later, he was fast asleep.

*****

Charles and Logan became good friends after that. Their interactions were still often loaded with the weight of attraction, but alongside it now grew a respect and cordiality that was new to the both of them but was especially foreign to Logan. It was perhaps this that kept him from pursuing Charles any more fiercely than he might otherwise have done; friendships of such ease and innocence were rare to him and therefore infinitely precious, and he was wary of doing anything that might negatively affect the bond between them.

And so the two of them engaged in frequent bouts of flirtation and teasing, and it was not unusual for them to fall into bed together after a night of heavy drinking, but that was the extent of their relations. Even if Charles proved to be more uninhibited and amorous during such times when he was drunk and they shared a bed, Logan was far too honourable ( _gentlemanly_ , Charles had said once, albeit with a scowl of reproach on his face) to go any further with Charles whilst he was so inebriated. 

If Charles was disappointed by Logan’s lack of action, then he never showed it when sober. He was his usual charming and bright self by day, full of the purest ideals and fervour, his enthusiasm even going as far as to make Logan feel slightly less jaded about the world whilst in his company. They spent most of their days together, and their evenings were spent in the taverns, indulging in drink and merriment. They had by this time visited every single tavern that they could find, but it was by unspoken agreement that they always returned to the one in which they had first met, even though the ale to be found in many of the other taverns was, if truth be told, much superior. 

This was not the full extent of their activities, however, and Logan, although not involved himself, was not unaware of what Charles was doing. He knew that the trips made through the town by day and to the taverns at night were not done solely for the sake of merriment, but because Charles was still pursuing his quest to find the strange and unnatural. 

Logan, in truth, felt very uncomfortable about Charles’s interests in the unnatural; indeed, the one time that he and Charles had come the closest to exchanging harsh words was during a discussion of the very same matter. Charles had been planning his activities with the precision of a master strategist, whilst Logan had tried his level best to dissuade him from such an enterprise. He had intended to be persuasive, but instead, his temper and – he was forced to admit – his uncouthness had quickly transformed his coaxing into outright insults, and he was sure that, had Charles been a lesser man, he would have washed his hands of Logan altogether after his shameful behaviour that night. Luckily, however, Charles seemed to have the patience of a saint and, after a few strong words were delivered by both parties, the two of them had left for the tavern, shared half a cask of ale and had subsequently become the best of friends once more. 

Logan had been careful to avoid interfering with Charles’s plans ever since, and the matter was never spoken of again.

It hardly mattered, Logan reasoned. After all, how likely was it that Charles would actually find out something truly _useful_?

He severely regretted his complacence, however, when, a few short days later, Charles came across something that changed matters entirely.

They had met once more at their favourite tavern and Charles had taken it upon himself to greet some of his acquaintances among the regulars, going over to sit with them and talk. Logan had initially been reluctant to follow, but the longer that Charles stayed by the villagers’ side, the more impatient he became, until he eventually – and not without a good deal of irritated muttering – decided to relocate himself to somewhere closer to Charles’s side of the room. 

Charles glanced up at his approach, his eyes twinkling with a barely suppressed mirth that was only heightened by the disgruntled expression on Logan’s face, before he returned to speaking to the person next to him.

Logan did not pay any attention to the conversation at first, too busy glowering down at the table and drinking his ale to pay much heed. Then, however, he heard a name that made his hair stand on end.

“… doubt he will ever go back to Meissen again.”

Logan went still. 

“Poor man took a fright,” said a different voice. “He may never be the same again, after this.”

“I am hardly surprised,” said another. “We all know about the sort of things that happen there.” The villagers all shared a look.

Charles, seeming to feel out of the loop, looked eagerly from one face to another. “What sort of things?” he asked, his eyes shining with interest. “Why will he not go back to ... that place?”

Logan’s hands slowly balled into fists and he forced himself to keep calm as the villagers exchanged a wary look, as if deciding whether to respond to the question.

“Meissen,” one of the villagers offered at last, rather daringly. “We are talking of Meissen.”

“Yes, as you say,” Charles nodded, clearly having never heard of the name before. “But what is so strange about it?” As the villagers glanced away, looking troubled, he hastened to add, “I am very much interested in strange things, as I am sure you know.”

“Aye, that we do,” said one of the men, his tone grim. “And if it is strange things you wish to see, lad, then you would do well to go to Meissen.” The old man shook his head. “That is a dark place, that one.”

“Oh?” Charles sat up at that, intrigued, seeming completely unaware of the villagers’ discomfort – and Logan’s, besides. “How do you mean, sir?”

“I mean,” the man said darkly, moving forward. “Strange things are afoot there.”

“Such as?” Charles asked eagerly. 

Logan tensed, not knowing what it was that he was about to hear.

“Such as ghosts,” the old man said proudly, taking a sip of ale. Charles’s shoulders slumped while Logan allowed his own to relax a little.

“Ghosts,” Charles repeated, sounding slightly put out. He had all too often complained to Logan about the sort of ‘ghosts’ that he had been persuaded to investigate during the course of his investigations of the Unusual. They had all been, without exception, thoroughly disappointing. “I see.”

“Yes,” the man nodded on, oblivious. “Ghosts. And devils, too.”

Charles perked up again. “Devils?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes,” the old man said, his tone serious. “Devils. Devils such as that come and drink your blood and raise the dead.”

“Oh,” Charles’s eyes were round with curiosity.

“An accursed place, is that,” the old man was saying, shaking his head. “They say an entire village was slaughtered there once. An offering to the devils, so they say.” He shook his head. “Place has been rotten ever since.”

Logan gritted his teeth and turned away at that, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. He knew all too well what had happened to that village. What it was that he had failed to prevent.

Charles, meanwhile, was listening ardently to the villagers around him, who, seeming to take courage from the old man, were also contributing to the tale. Logan could barely bring himself to listen to it, of how the spirits of the dead villagers of Meissen haunted the land upon which they had been slaughtered, crying out in echoes of fear and despair.

Charles listened on, enraptured.

“Tell him about the old devil up at the castle!” came a sudden voice from the back, the tone a mix of eagerness and timidity. “Tell him about the monster who lives there!”

The room suddenly went quiet. Logan turned around quickly, his blood suddenly cold.

Charles, it seemed, was completely unaware of either occurrence. “What devil?” he asked quickly, determined not to let the conversation peter out. “What castle?”

No one said anything for the longest moment. Then:

“Schwarzkron,” came the whisper, and the room seemed to collectively shudder at the name. “Just a day’s ride away from Meissen. The castle of Schwarzkron.”

“Schwarzkron,” Charles breathed, a gleam entering his eye.

“Aye,” said the old man briskly. “And a terrible place, it is.” He suddenly fixed Charles with a stern glare. “You hear me now, _Engländer_ ,” he said firmly. “Do not go wandering where you have no business. Leave the demons and the dead alone; you are not wanted there.”

Charles’s lips tightened in an expression of mild irritation but he did not say anything in response. Instead, he turned to the others. “What of the demon?” he asked, trying not to sound too interested. “What is so terrible about him?”

There was a moment of indecisive silence.

“He is a monster,” one old man burst out, unable to keep quiet. “Bloodthirsty and mad.”

“Men and women and children all go missing when he is near!”

“He never ages,” another said, his eyes wide. “Not a day.”

“It’s true,” one of the younger villagers piped up. “My father is almost a hundred years old and he swears to have never seen the master of the castle age in all his time on earth!”

There were shocked murmurs from the rest of the group.

Logan’s lips tightened. Charles, on the other hand, had never looked happier.

‘What else?’ he asked, his eyes shining.

“Enough!” the old man who had warned Charles away from Meissen abruptly rose, his expression dark. “I warned you about this place, _Engländer_ , but if you will not put an end to it, then I will. It is not a matter for boys such as yourself to concern yourself with. Forget about what you have heard and take yourself back to your own lands. There is nothing for you here.”

“Oh, but—” Charles began.

“No more!” the old man interrupted him, unwilling to listen any further. “We will talk no more of this.” He then turned his back on Charles, leaning towards another villager and struck up a new conversation on the price of grain at the market.

And just like that it was over.

Charles stared at the villagers sat around him, looking bewildered as they all moved on to converse about grain. He opened his mouth once before grimacing and looking away. Then, with a sigh, he quietly rose to his feet and made his way over to Logan.

Logan watched him silently as he made his way over. He was more than glad that the conversation had ended, but he could not help but have the terrible feeling that the damage had already been done. Nevertheless, he kept his expression neutral as Charles approached.

“Lost interest in your friends, I see,” he drawled when Charles sat down next to him.

Charles smiled wryly. “Rather say that _they_ lost interest in _me_ ,” he said, sighing as he took a sip of his ale. He was quiet for a moment, but the silence did not last for long. Logan watched, his jaw clenched, as a spark grew in Charles’s eyes and his left leg jigged up and down in barely-suppressed excitement. Finally, he turned to face Logan, his face the picture of exhilaration. “Did you hear what they were saying?” he asked Logan, not paying any attention to the darkening of Logan’s expression. “Did you hear what they told me?”

“I heard some,” Logan admitted slowly, his tone cautious. He suspected that he knew what would be coming, and he was perfectly sure that he would not like it at all.

“Meissen,” Charles breathed, his eyes sparkling. “And Schwarzkron! Logan – do you see?”

“I see a lot of dumb superstition, if that’s what you’re asking,” Logan muttered, glaring at his tankard.

Charles shook his head impatiently. “No,” he said, waving Logan’s lack of enthusiasm away. “Don’t you see? They have given me the next piece of my puzzle! The next location of my search!”

Logan gritted his teeth. “Well forgive me if I don’t go jumping for joy at that, bub,” he growled, glaring darkly at his ale and refusing to look up.

Charles’s expression immediately dimmed. “Oh dear,” he said, sounding unhappy. “I quite forgot. I – I suppose this will mean goodbye for us.”

At that, Logan’s dull mood deteriorated even further. He valiantly attempted to rally himself. “Not just now it doesn’t,” he said with a shrug, trying to appear unaffected. “I mean, you’re not going right now, so—” he paused when he saw the guilty look on Charles’s face. “You have to be – you can’t tell me that you’re thinking of leaving right now!” he growled, disbelieving.

Charles winced. “Well, not _right_ now,” he said uncomfortably, shifting slightly in his seat. “But – perhaps tomorrow. I am thinking of leaving tomorrow.”

Logan stared at him, incredulous. “You don’t waste time, huh?” he said after a moment, trying to keep his tone neutral. 

Charles blinked at that and then huffed out a short, rueful laugh. “Logan, what do you think I have been doing with you for the past week and a half?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “I have done little _but_ waste time. My friend, I have been gravely neglectful of my search – I have spent far too much time carousing in taverns and inns and not enough focusing on my enquiry.” His expression softened at the look on Logan’s face. “I do not regret it for a second, of course,” he said gently. “But it is time that I carried on with my quest. I used my lack of information as an excuse to remain here with you, but now I cannot in good conscience remain here for any longer.”

“You hardly have more information now!” Logan growled, his eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. “Listen to me, Charles. This is foolish. You can’t just go haring off like that on the words of a superstitious old fool.”

Charles’s lips tightened. “I have locations,” he said coolly, his eyes fixed on Logan’s. “Meissen and Schwarzkron. That is more than enough to begin with. I am sure that I will find out more when I get there.”

Logan gritted his teeth. He knew that he was fighting a losing battle but he had to try anyway. “You don’t want to go there, Charles,” he said in a low voice, his expression serious. “I’ve heard bad things about these places. They’re dangerous.”

Far from being alarmed, Charles looked intrigued. “Oh?” he asked, leaning forwards. “How so? You have heard of these places before?”

Logan swore under his breath. “Only bad things,” he said darkly, clenching his fists. “That the way there is filled with danger and that the place is a haven for cutthroats and murderers.” He jerked his head over to the villagers in the corner. “That’s probably where all this talk of devils came from. There are devils there, alright – it’s just that all of them are completely human.”

He was gratified to see that Charles looked slightly uncertain after this. 

“What you say makes sense,” Charles said heavily, glancing down at his feet. “The talk of devils likely does stem from such men.”

Logan slowly allowed himself to relax. 

“But then – what of the master of Schwarzkron?”

Logan’s spine stiffened again. “What about him?” he forced himself to ask.

“All this talk of him being a monster – and one who never ages? Does that not strike you as curious?”

“Hardly,” Logan snorted, trying to hide his anxiety. There was no way that he was letting Charles go off to _that_ accursed place if he could help it. “You think that this is the first rich and powerful man to abuse his position? Or that the poor, ignorant bastards who struggle every day to survive don’t come up with all sorts of stories about the sort of people who live up in castles? Face it, kid,” he shook his head. “It’s all ignorance and superstition. The sooner you admit to that, the less trouble you’ll find yourself in.”

“You have an answer for everything, it seems, my friend,” Charles said lightly, his hand clasped around his mug of ale. “You know how to explain everything.”

Logan shrugged. “I’m useful that way,” he muttered.

“Indeed,” Charles dipped his head. “You certainly are. Your common sense has proved invaluable. Although,” he paused, his eyelashes lowered as he deliberately averted his eyes from Logan’s, “If I were a suspicious sort of man, I would have thought that you had some sort of vested interest in keeping me from my quest, what with your eagerness to prove me wrong all the time.”

Logan paused in the process of bringing his tankard up to his lips. He forced himself to complete the motion and then slowly brought the mug back down again. “Oh yeah,” he said in a tone of forced calm. “Sure, I got a vested interest.” He met Charles’s eyes. “I’m trying to keep you _alive_ , you damn English fool.”

Charles blinked, taken aback. 

“I know what you’re like,” Logan continued, his teeth gritted. “And I know what it’s like _out there_. And you ain’t got a chance, kid.” He shook his head, genuine anxiety leaking into his voice. “I’m not saying this to scare you, but – you go about as you are – dressed like that, _talking_ like that? Well, sorry but you’re gonna get your throat cut by the first opportunistic, knife-wielding piece of shit that you walk past.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

Charles opened his mouth to argue but then he shook his head and looked away. He didn’t say anything for the longest moment. When he did eventually speak, his head was still angled away from Logan. “You must have a very low opinion of me, if you think that,” he said quietly. 

Logan winced; his words were coming out all wrong. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said patiently. “I meant that – people will see you and they will try to take advantage of you. And you may not be best equipped to—”

“To what?” Charles raised an eyebrow. “Look after myself?”

“You’re taking this all wrong,” Logan growled, frustrated both by Charles and his own clumsy phrasing. “I’m not saying anything against _you_. It’s all the rest of it.” He glared at Charles. “You don’t know this place. I do.”

“I’ve dealt with brigands and thieves before, Logan,” Charles said coldly.

“Really?” Logan did not look impressed. “How many? In what situation? Because let me tell you, things aren’t as _civilised_ here as they might be in your country.”

“I see,” Charles said coldly. “So it is not just me that you have a low opinion of – it’s everyone else, too!”

Logan gritted his teeth and pinched the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t going the way that he wanted it to and he knew, from what little time that he had spent with Charles, that rather than discouraging him from his quest, all Logan was doing was spurring him on harder.

“Look,” he said with forced patience, “I’m just saying. Why do you want to risk your life going looking for these things that don’t even exist?”

Charles raised his chin. “You don’t know that they don’t exist,” he said obstinately.

Logan rolled his eyes. “Come on, kid,” he muttered. He let out a sigh. Then he tried a different tack. “What about this place you’re so keen on heading to. What makes you sure that it’s the place that you should be heading? I’m sure there are a hundred better places to get to with better stories than that place. All you need to do is look harder.”

“I _have_ looked hard,” Charles said shaking his head. “And this is the first time that I have come across a tale that looks promising. No,” he said, shaking his head. “I am heading in the right direction – I am sure of it. This is what Raven meant, when she wrote to me about listening to what people in the tavern said. This is what I have been waiting for.” He met Logan’s eyes. “I will not let this opportunity slip from my grasp.”

Logan closed his eyes. He had hoped that it would not come to this, but if Charles could not be dissuaded then there was only one thing for it. He took a deep breath. “I could come with you,” he muttered, his words barely audible over the sounds of the tavern.

Charles blinked. “What?” he asked, frowning as if he had not heard correctly.

“I could come with you,” Logan repeated, raising his voice to a growl, carefully avoiding meeting Charles’s eyes. “To Meissen. I could go with you.”

Charles looked confused. “But – why?” he asked, his eyebrows drawn together. At Logan’s suddenly shuttered expression he hurried on, “I mean, why would you do that? Surely you have other things to do besides chaperoning me about?”

Logan grimaced at that. He _did_ have other things to do. His self-imposed break from the pack ought to have been over by now and he should have returned to the pack over a week ago, but somehow he hadn’t been able to find the will to leave. And now … well, there was no chance of him going back to the pack _now_. 

They could look after themselves for a little while longer, he mused, coming to a decision. After all, the pack was in no immediate danger. The time was a peaceful one, and it had been that way ever since Logan had driven his brother Victor out and taken his place as pack leader a little more than a century ago. 

Yes, he decided, they could fend for themselves for a short while longer. _Charles_ , on the other hand, would benefit greatly from having someone there to protect him – and not just from any bandits that they might meet on the way.

_Meissen_. Logan shuddered at the memory. It had been a long time since he had returned there. He was not looking forward to it.

“I got nothing better to do,” Logan lied, keeping his tone light as he met Charles’s eyes. “And I guess I’m kinda used to you now. Would be a shame if you didn’t make it back here for another drink.”

Charles regarded him seriously for a moment, his gaze searching. Then his mouth quirked upwards. “You just want someone to drink with,” he said with mock reproach, trying to hide a smile.

Logan shrugged. “Yeah, well it’s hard finding decent conversation around these parts,” he said carelessly. He then glanced up at Charles. “So what do you say, Chuck?” he asked in a low voice, his expression suddenly serious. “You up for me travelling with you?”

Charles gave him another long, penetrating look. He looked strangely hesitant, as if he did not know what to make of Logan’s offer. Then, at last, he finally dipped his head into a brief nod. “Yes,” he said, although he still looked a little uncertain. “If that is what you want, then – yes.”

Logan took in a deep breath. “Good,” he said curtly. “Glad it’s settled. So tell me – when do we leave?”

Charles bit his lip pensively. “Midday,” he said finally, coming to a decision. “We leave at midday.” He looked at Logan. “Come to my chambers at noon tomorrow and we will set off. Is that convenient for you?”

Logan nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Midday. That’s easy enough.”

Charles nodded approvingly. “Well, on that note,” he set his tankard down on the table and rose from his seat. “We should probably call an end to our evening.”

Logan lifted an eyebrow. “We should?” he drawled.

“Yes – we ought to get an early night,” Charles urged, his expression earnest. “And I have a number of things to do before tomorrow. Surely you do, too.”

Logan sighed, finding himself unable to refuse. “I guess we’re moving on then,” he said, finishing off his ale and looking down at the tankard regretfully. 

“I suppose so,” Charles agreed, his tone strangely sad. It looked like Logan would not be the only one to regret leaving the tavern behind. He glanced up after a moment, however, and smiled warmly at Logan. “Shall we?” he asked.

Logan nodded, and together they left the tavern.

They were quiet as they wound their way back to Charles’s lodgings, their shoulders brushing with every other step that they took. Eventually, they reached their destination and they both paused, turning to look at one another.

“Guess it’s goodnight, then,” Logan said gruffly, looking at Charles.

Charles was looking back at him with a strangely soft expression on his face.

‘What?’ Logan asked, immediately feeling self-conscious. He was used to Charles looking at him with a sly, teasing glint in his eye, but this soft look wasn’t something that he had seen him wear before. It made his breath catch rather oddly in his chest.

Charles’s mouth quirked upwards. And then, suddenly, before Logan could react, Charles was leaning forwards, right into Logan’s space, and – bewilderingly, wonderfully – their mouths were pressed together in a gentle kiss, Charles’s lips soft and warm against Logan’s own.

Logan was unsure how to react to this unexpected occurrence at first, but then, after a moment of surprised stillness, he finally allowed himself relax into the sweetness of the kiss, closing his eyes and allowing the sensation to wash over him.

They stayed like that for a moment, not moving, with only their lips pressed together. As far as kisses went, it was perhaps the most chaste, innocent kiss that Logan had ever found himself part of – and yet it was all the more affecting perhaps for that very reason. 

Eventually Charles pulled back with a sigh, his lashes lowered and his eyes soft and dreamy.

“Goodnight, Logan,” he said quietly, with a soft, almost wistful smile on his face.

Then, as Logan watched, he turned around and made his way towards the door housing his apartments, and, within moments, was gone.

Logan stood there for a minute, feeling strangely dazed, a feeling of warmth and hopeful anticipation coiling in his gut. 

… Perhaps the trip to Meissen would not be so bad after all.

He found himself standing there for a moment more, although he could not say why, looking at the spot where Charles had disappeared from view. Then, with a shake of his head at his own foolishness, he spun on his heel and walked back the way he had come, trying to understand the strange, unfamiliar feeling that now burned deep within his chest.

*****

The next day saw Logan arrive at Charles’s lodgings a full half hour before he was expected, the small, light pack that he carried his only baggage for the journey ahead. He always preferred to travel light: it was not as if he had all that many possessions in the first place, and besides, it was safer that way – the less you had on you, the less temptation there was for any brigands and thieves to steal from you. Logan only hoped that Charles had realised the same, although he did not hold out much hope for that: he had seen the heavy, bound books in Charles’s possession, and he did not think that Charles was the type to leave those behind without very good reason.

The inn’s staircase was steep and narrow, and the wooden steps creaked with every move that he made as he slowly ascended. He took his time as he climbed, keeping a steady pace as he reflected almost nostalgically over his memories of dragging a heavily-inebriated Charles up the same staircase. He put these thoughts aside once he reached the top, however, and he turned into the corridor and walked down towards the end of it, until he came to the wooden door that guarded the rooms that Charles had taken for himself. Setting down his pack, Logan then straightened up before raising one strong fist and rapping sharply against the door. He waited.

There was no response.

Frowning, Logan impatiently raised his hand once more and knocked again, this time louder than before. 

Still there was no answer.

Frown deepening, Logan leaned closer to the door. “Charles?” he called, his voice deep and low. “It’s me. Open up.”

Charles did not answer.

A tight, troubling feeling of uneasiness settled low in Logan’s gut. Glancing about him, he stepped close to Charles’s door and, closing his eyes, drew in a long, deep breath.

A variety of smells assailed his nostrils – smoke from a fire long burnt out, residual scraps of food, and various residual bodily odours left over from tenants long gone were all readily discernable, as was the light and heady aroma of Charles’s own familiar scent. The only thing that was missing, however, was Charles himself.

Logan breathed in once more, just to make sure. It was unmistakeable. Charles’s scent might still linger in the room but the man himself was somewhere else.

His heart beating fast, Logan snatched up his pack and stalked down the stairs. He caught sight of the inn-keeper’s wife clearing a table and immediately went over to her, striding towards her with wide, purposeful steps.

“The man taking the room upstairs,” he growled, causing her to jump. “The Englishman. Where is he?”

The woman – a short, homely, red-cheeked sort of lady – blinked at him in genuine surprise. “The _Engländer_ , sir? Why,” she said, tucking the rag she had been holding into the front pocket of her apron with a frown. “He is gone!”

Logan spat out a curse. “Gone?” he growled, clenching his fists. “Where? Where did he go? When did he leave here?”

The woman shrugged. If Logan had not been so distracted he might have admired her fearlessness; no doubt the woman was more than used to dealing with intoxicated and rowdy customers, if Logan’s snarling and growling did little to shake her out of her calm temperament.

“As to the first, I couldn’t say, sir,” she said coolly, cocking her head to the side. “But as for the second, I could tell you quite precisely. He left just after sunrise, as soon as there was light in the sky. He’s been gone for hours now, I’m afraid.”

Logan barely suppressed a growl of anger at that. As it was, he clenched his hands even tighter at his sides and he muttered yet another vicious curse under his breath.

The woman watched him without batting an eyelid, although her expression showed that she was extremely curious to know why Logan was searching for her former tenant. “Owes you money, does he, sir?” she asked in a sympathetic tone, eyeing him knowingly. “I would never have thought it of him – such a nice young gentleman, he was. And ever so timely with his payment …”

Logan shook his head. “No,” he grunted out distractedly. “Nothing like that.” He took a minute to gather his thoughts before then turning back to the woman. “Did he say anything further?” he demanded. “Before he left?”

The woman thought for a moment. “As a matter of fact,” she said slowly, “he did. He said that he was most awfully sorry to leave – he stressed that greatly, he did, sir, said that he was very sorry indeed – but that there were things that he needed to do by himself and that they could not be put off any longer for any reason.” She shrugged. “He did say that he had enjoyed himself most thoroughly, though, and that he hopes to return as soon as he finds what he’s been looking for.”

Logan gritted his teeth. He had no doubt whatsoever that the words were intended as a message to him from Charles, who would have guessed that Logan would demand answers from the inn-keeper’s wife. The emphatic apologies showed that much, if nothing else, though Logan was in no mood to be forgiving right now.

He thanked the woman gruffly and paid her a coin in thanks for her information before leaving the inn in something of a daze. As he walked, however, the hazy gloom that his head was clouded in dispersed and gave way to anger. 

Charles had tricked him. He had deceived him into thinking that they would be making the journey to Meissen together, he had _deliberately_ lulled him into a false sense of security – Logan determinedly did not think of just how exactly Charles had managed that, because to do so would be to taint the memory – and he had then left Logan behind, putting hours and miles between them in the belief that the greater the distance between them, the less likely Logan would be to follow. 

He clearly didn’t know Logan well enough if he thought that that would be enough to put him off.

“You ain’t getting off that easy, kid,” Logan muttered grimly. Charles might not have wanted Logan’s protection, but he was damn well going to get it. Logan was going to follow him to Meissen and hunt him down and then _drag_ Charles back to safety even if it killed him. 

“Damn it, Chuck,” Logan growled under his breath. “You could’ve just stuck around. This was for your own damn good.”

Charles obviously didn’t see it that way. Logan sighed. The kid had no idea what he would be facing, and he was bound to run into trouble sooner or later. Knowing Charles, it would probably be the _sooner_ , Logan reflected with a grimace. The kid was essentially harmless but he was too damn curious for his own good, and, as Logan knew all too well, too much curiosity around these parts could get a person into all kinds of trouble. Quite frankly, Logan wouldn’t trust Charles to himself in the company of normal, peaceful villagers, let alone among the inhabitants of the cursed castle of Schwarzkron.

That was probably why Charles had run, Logan admitted to himself. He was probably well aware that Logan would have had no qualms about restricting his movements and curtailing his research the moment that they came across anything remotely dangerous – which is to say, to Charles’s mind, anything remotely interesting. As much as he might have enjoyed his company, Charles must have been aware that Logan would not have been an ideal companion on this trip, what with his overprotective nature, and so he had done the only thing that he could think of: he had left Logan behind.

It stung, more than Logan would like to admit. And the very fact that it stung only irritated him further. 

He scowled down at the road. This was why he did not get involved with humans: they were too messy and difficult, and they complicated things even without trying. There was a reason why his kind stuck to their own: quite frankly, humans were far more trouble than they were worth.

That didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to go after Charles and save his sorry hide, though.

Logan sighed wearily and lifted his head up from the muddy track, certain of his decision. It was then that he realised that his feet had unconsciously directed him back to his own inn, the one that he had taken his leave from that very morning. Logan frowned, debating whether or not he ought to go in. He was already hours behind Charles – could he really afford to waste any more time? 

Then again – he grimaced – he was already so behind that it would hardly matter when he left. His best chance now was to try to find Charles in Meissen rather than try to catch him on the way. And that meant that he could afford to delay his departure by an hour or two.

With a sigh, he turned and headed into the inn, entering it and heading straight towards the bar, deciding that it was as good a place as any to spend his time. Before he could reach it, however, he was abruptly accosted by the landlord, who quickly hurried towards him with a look of relief on his face.

“Sir!” the man exclaimed, approaching him quickly. “I am very glad to see you again. I was afraid that you had left and were not returning!”

“That was the plan,” Logan said darkly, glaring down at the man, none too pleased about the interruption. “What do you want?”

“A letter has arrived for you,” the man said quickly, fumbling with his pockets in order to draw out the missive. “It arrived just after you left, sir.”

Logan was at his side in an instant. _Charles_ , he thought. The letter must be from Charles. 

A dozen or more different scenarios ran through his head as he waited impatiently for the landlord to retrieve the letter: Charles regretted leaving without him and so had come to Logan’s to wait for him instead; Charles had forgotten their planned meeting point and had come here and left him a letter when he hadn’t found him; Charles had needed to set out earlier than he had expected and was telling Logan to meet him elsewhere; Charles had felt bad about fleeing without leaving Logan a message and had decided to rectify that …

At last, the inn-keeper pulled out the letter and presented it to Logan with a noise of satisfaction, looking rather overly pleased with himself. Logan let out a grunt of thanks and took it from him, waiting impatiently for the man to depart before taking himself into a corner and ripping the letter open.

Taking a deep breath, he looked down at it.

His heart sank.

It wasn’t from Charles.

Trying not to crush the letter between his tightening fists, he set his jaw and began to slowly read the letter. 

_Danger_ , he read, the words written hastily in a crude, rough script. _Creed sighted nearby. Pack uneasy. Come at once - do not delay._

It was not signed. Then again, it did not have to be.

Logan slowly lowered the letter and closed his eyes. 

A part of him was tempted to dismiss the letter regardless of the consequences and go after Charles just as he had originally intended to do. The more rational, duty-bound part of him, however, knew that he could not do that. His obligation to his pack – his role as pack leader – far outweighed anything that he owed or wanted from Charles. It was one of the cardinal rules of their kind: pack came first. It had been that way for centuries, and it would no doubt remain that way for many more. 

Logan sighed, and tried to ignore the coldness within his chest. 

There was nothing left to be done. His hands were tied. He had to return home.

He lowered his head in defeat.

Charles was, for now at least, on his own.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles meets a kindly stranger in the ruins of the village Meissen.

Erik sat on his favorite spot at the top of the hill, overlooking the remains of the village where he had been born over four hundred years ago. In truth, the toppled stone and old ruins were not even the original remnants of the Meissen of his day; these were the skeletons of the settlement that had been built there after the massacre.

Built over the blood of his murdered family, and of Charles.

He did not return for a hundred years to Meissen, after he was turned by Sebastian Shaw, too stricken with grief still at the thought of revisiting the devastation of his former life. When he realized that others had come and remade the village anew he had reacted violently and without pity, setting their crops ablaze as a warning. And when the villagers did not depart he slaughtered them one by one, draining their blood and leaving their corpses dry, the puncture wounds too prominent to be mistaken for anything but the work of a monster.

When the remaining interlopers had departed, cursing the ground and the evil that apparently lingered there still, Erik set the village on fire once more, and wept bitter tears in the midst of the smoldering ashes.

Now the view from the hill is green and verdant, loose stones and an ancient well-lit only by the light of a full moon. It was here that his memories of Charles were the strongest, of nights where the two lay in this exact spot and watched the stars, and made love while the village slept quietly at their feet. If he closed his eyes he could almost see Charles’s smile, and the way his eyes glowed in the moonlight; taste his lips as he pressed Charles into the soft green grass, swallowing soft moans as Erik moved inside his pliant body.

Four hundred years, and his longing for his dead lover had never waned.

Still lost in thought, Erik was surprised to hear sounds coming from the direction of the nearest village, from New Meissen located almost half a mile away. The sound of a horse, cantering at the behest of its rider, making its way slowly to where Erik now stood, hidden under the shadows of an oak tree as he waited. He was more curious tonight than angry at being disturbed, and so he chose to watch for now, to see what unfortunate fool would brave such ‘haunted’ ruins in the middle of the night.

A man, dressed in clothes much too fine to be a local came into view not long after, reining his horse to an easy stop. He hopped off and patted the horse’s head, speaking soft reassuring words before tying it to a tree by the side of the road. He took his pack off the saddle and turned, eyes sweeping over the open area until his gaze landed on the hill where Erik was still standing and stopped, seemingly frozen.

He knew that the man could not see him, the darkness of night too difficult for mortal eyes to pierce the distance that lay between them, and yet Erik felt as though the man was looking straight at him, rendering him stunned and speechless. Neither of them moved for what seemed an eternity, until the man finally shook his head in apparent bewilderment, and started down the path into the ruins.

Erik stayed rooted in his spot as the man lit a torch and wandered closer, his silhouette familiar and his gait unhurried. Every nerve in Erik’s body tingled as he stared, his mind racing in disbelief as the light of the Harvest moon revealed the man’s young and handsome face.

“Charles,” he whispered, and stepped into view.

\----

Charles found it hard to contain his glee as he walked around the abandoned village.

It was exactly what he had been searching for. The whole place was deserted and dilapidated, seemingly frozen in this state of ghostly disrepair for all time. The incoming fog that crept around his ankles only added to the atmosphere, shrouding the village in mystery.

Charles knew that he ought to be feeling apprehensive – the entire village was weighted in a deep sense loss and pain that could be felt even now, centuries after its destruction and subsequent abandonment. Deep scratches and gouges marked the rotting walls of the buildings, and there were dark stains that soaked into the stones that Charles knew with instinctive certainty were caused by spilled blood. The fog and the darkness of evening only added to the eeriness; by all rights Charles should have waited until morning to visit Meissen, but he had not been able to resist venturing forth and taking his first look at the village, promising himself that he would only stay briefly. That had been a half hour ago. 

Strangely, however, Charles didn’t feel at all anxious about his surroundings. He could not explain it. He had visited ruins with less visible remnants of violence that had caused him to shiver with a thrill of fear … but here he felt no such apprehension. Instead, he felt almost … at home.

He immediately shook himself, smiling wryly at his whimsy. Of all the places in the world for him to feel at ease, it would be in an abandoned ghost town in the middle of nowhere. He could practically see the formidable eye-roll that his sister would gift him with if he ever shared such a nonsensical feeling with her.

Charles sighed at the reminder of his sister, wishing keenly that she were here with him at this very moment. How she would have loved the ruined village! But then again, it was likely that she had already been here – after all, Charles would not have found his way here if it hadn’t been for her letters and clues.

Feeling cheered by this thought, Charles continued his walk around the ruins, wondering idly whether his feet were stepping in the same places that Raven’s had. He paused outside a particularly dilapidated shack, and he was just musing on whether she had dared to enter it – of course she had, it was _Raven_  – when a voice behind him caused him to jump in shock, the fear that had been missing throughout the visit to the village suddenly appearing and flooding his veins all in the space of a second.

“ _Charles_.”

His heart pounding in his chest, Charles whirled around, his hands unconsciously balled into fists.

There was no one there.

Charles swallowed down his nerves and, standing up straighter, lifted his chin and called out. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, peering through the fog as best he could. The voice had been male, he was sure of that much, so it couldn’t be Raven … but then who else knew his name in these parts? It couldn’t have been Logan – he had left him far behind, and besides, Charles knew how his name sounded on Logan’s lips. This voice … he almost shivered. This voice had been full of emotion; full of grief, and love, and _yearning_.

Steeling himself once more, Charles called out again into the fog. “Who’s there?” he asked, standing his ground. “I heard you, I know you are there. How do you know my name?”

At first there was nothing. Then all of a sudden the fog seemed to part and there stood a figure – standing as if he had been there all along, but for the mist hiding him from view – staring straight at him with dark, sad eyes.

Sad,  _hungry_  eyes, Charles corrected himself, feeling almost hypnotized by the sight as the man watched him unblinkingly.

Then the man took a step forward and the spell was broken. Charles blinked, shaking himself, before opening his mouth to speak to the stranger.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see you—“

But then suddenly the man was upon him, and Charles belatedly brought his hands up in an effort to block any attack he might bring—

Only to find that instead of being attacked, he was being kissed – ferociously, passionately, and desperately – by a man that he had never seen before in his life.

Charles was too surprised to do anything but cling on to the powerful arms that held him, speechless.

When the man at last pulled back, his chest was heaving and his eyes were full of love and emotion. “Charles,” he breathed, the words tender and unfamiliar. “Charles, it is me, your Erik.”

Charles stared at the man, still trying valiantly to catch his breath. “Erik,” he repeated, nonplussed. Then, he brought up his fist and, without hesitation, decked his attacker straight in the face.

He spared a moment to think that he might have acted rashly, apology already springing to his lips when he noticed that the man hadn’t reacted to his punch. In fact, he barely moved but for a short intake of breath, as though being hit by Charles was a logical extension to kissing him; as though he had expected it - _craved_ it - his eyes full of longing and intent even as Charles tugged himself away and took a conscious step back.

“Who are you? What--? What was that?”

The man stared at him for long moments, the expression of hopeful wonder slowly slipping away as Charles waited, bewildered and unsettled. It was clear that the stranger had mistaken him for someone else, someone he cared for deeply, and the way his entire countenance crumpled made Charles’s heart hurt in the most inexplicable way.

“You don’t…you don’t remember,” the stranger stammered, awkward and hesitant, so incongruous with the harsh and somber lines of the man’s face. His shoulders slumped slightly, before he took a deep breath and bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I mistook you for someone I knew, a long time ago. Someone very important to me. For a moment I thought…well, I thought he’d come back to me.”

It should not have mattered, whatever the excuse - Charles was well within his right to be angry, to be accosted so, and in the ruins of a haunted village! And yet he felt such an overwhelming sympathy for this man, so obviously stricken with grief; wondered at the depth of feeling, of such unconcealed _passion_ between this stranger and his mysterious ‘Charles’, and what happened to cause their parting.

“Do I look so much like him, your Charles?” he asked, and oh the man’s eyes, so captivating under the moonlight, practically devoured him as he continued, “surely, it is merely the shadows playing tricks on you? Whatever it may be, I forgive you your actions, good sir, as I can see now that you did not intend me any harm.”                           

The man stared at him, seeming to weigh his words before his lips quirked in the barest hint of a smile. “Not only in your looks, but also in your willingness to forgive a stranger’s transgression so easily. He is… _was_ , the kindest, gentlest soul I’ve ever known.”

Somehow, the words made Charles ache, for it was clear then the depth of the man’s regard for one he must have loved very much. Though he had yet to experience such a thing himself, Charles hungered for it, craved the promised connection and devotion to another that such open – if forbidden – affection could bring to his lonely, if privileged existence.

“You flatter me,” Charles answered, before offering his hand with a grin. “Charles Xavier. Pleased to meet you.”

“My name is Erik,” the man said, voice soft and fond as he grasped Charles’s hand. He was tall and rather handsome, and clad not in the popular fashion of shirt, doublet and hose, but rather in comfortable leathers, with a flowing wine colored cape around his broad shoulders. “Erik Lehnsherr. The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”

Charles laughed, and that seemed to please his new acquaintance, though he was sure that Erik had no idea what amused him so. “Well, now that we have properly met, may I ask what you are doing in these woods in the middle of the night? You nearly scared me to death!”

“That’s funny, I was going to ask you the same question,” Erik replied with a smile of his own, flashing teeth that glinted stark white under the moonlight. “You are far from home, Master Xavier, as I can discern from your accent and the cut of your fine clothes. What brings you out here in the dark? To the remains of an old village the locals have shunned for generations?”

“Oh, do you know this place?” Charles blurted before he could stop himself, so eager was he to gain any information that might lead to Raven’s whereabouts. “I’m a scholar of…well, the fantastic and the supernatural! The townsfolk in Magdeburg seemed to believe that this place was haunted with ghosts and all manner of dangerous things! They said that the old village of Meissen stood here once, though something terrible apparently happened and everyone was killed and…Mister Lehnsherr? Are you alright?”

Erik’s expression had darkened as soon as Charles made mention of ghosts, the scowl deepening even further at the mention of Meissen and the tragedy that had befallen its inhabitants. He cursed himself for being so callous with his remarks, for what if the man had ancestors that died here? That seemed as likely a reason as any for Erik’s presence here; Erik who spoke in the same Germanic accent prevalent in this region of the Continent.

Erik who seemed _connected_ somehow - to the air, to the smells, and to the sounds of the night all around them.

“You should not have come here, Charles,” Erik said, as he closed the distance between them, voice edged with barely suppressed rage. “This place is…you shouldn’t have come.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Charles sputtered, inching back as Erik loomed over him, truly afraid for the first time since he arrived in this strange place. There was something inherently wild – something that screamed _danger_ – about his new acquaintance, the warnings from the men in the tavern ringing in his ears as he raised his hands in supplication. “Please, if I have offended you by being here, I do apologize. I mean no disrespect to the dead…only, I am searching for my sister, and I believe she may have left me a clue here to retrace her steps.”

He had hoped to conceal his unease, not wanting to increase the other man’s ire, and yet something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for Erik stopped abruptly, the anger seeming to melt away into something akin to sadness, or regret. Slowly, gently, he took up Charles’s hand in his own, though he did not move away; he remained almost completely in Charles’s space, so close he could no doubt hear the way Charles’s heart raced in his chest. So close he would scarce have to lean forward, or dip his head to reach Charles’s lips—

“My family lived here, long ago,” Erik explained, and Charles barely noticed as he threaded their fingers together, so enthralled was he in Erik’s story. “Four hundred years ago, when this village yet thrived. We were a family of blacksmiths, poor but happy. It was a good life, until they were all viciously slaughtered.”

“What happened to them?” Charles whispered, stomach clenching with dread.

“They were murdered by a pack of wild beasts - every man, woman and child in the village. Torn to pieces by wolf-men who cared for nothing but to sate their blood lust on the innocent. There were a hundred people living in Meissen, and only one escaped with his life.”

Charles shivered, shaking his head in horror and disbelief. “It’s true then? These wolf-men… _werewolves_ , they really do exist! To have killed so many…and for what purpose? Why did they—“

Erik snarled, and Charles could have sworn that he saw a flash of teeth that was sharp and pointed. He shook his head and tried to pull away again, but Erik held on to him tightly, and hissed, “They didn’t need a reason! What _reasons_ do you think a monster needs to commit heinous acts of evil? They murdered for the thrill of it; for the taste of blood and mayhem and death!”

It confused him, the strength of Erik’s emotion for something that amounted to ancient history, yet Charles found himself wanting nothing more than to ease the man’s anguish. He squeezed Erik’s hand gently and said, “I’m sorry for your family’s loss, truly. The one who escaped, was he or she your ancestor? Did they pass on the tale of what happened here?”

Erik laughed, though it was an ugly, bitter sound. “He escaped his fate by chance, and spent his life wishing he’d died by their side.”

“That’s…awful,” Charles murmured, brushing his thumb absently across Erik’s knuckles. “I hope he found a new purpose eventually, and moved on from his grief. I’m sure his family would have wished him happiness, and peace.”

His words seemed to produce the desired effect, for Erik did not seem quite so angry when he agreed, “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, though peace was no longer an option. Not after everything that happened.” And then surprisingly, he offered, “Would you like me to escort you through the ruins? Perhaps I can help you find whatever clue you’re looking for. I know this place well, after all.”

Charles’s stomach leaped with renewed hope for his so far, rather fruitless search. “I would like that very much, if you will not find it too difficult.”

This time, Erik smiled truly, and Charles was struck once more at the warmth of it, directed at a complete stranger. “I would not have suggested it otherwise. Please, shall we?”

He returned the smile and nodded, and the two made their way slowly through the ruins, side by side. Erik led them confidently through the rubble and overgrown grass, pointing out the buildings where they used to stand, painting a picture for Charles of a once bustling village filled with day to day life. And though Charles kept his eyes open for any hint of Raven’s presence – a carving of her initials, or an embroidered handkerchief tied to a rock – there was nothing to be found but old, crumbling stone.

They stopped at last in front of a barren strip of earth, where a simple marker stood wrought lovingly from metal. Charles knew, even as Erik bent down on one knee and touched it reverently, that this must be the place where his ancestors had lived.

Neither man spoke for long moments, giving Charles time to ponder his next steps. He would not make the long trip back to Magdeburg before daybreak, and thought instead to find lodging in the nearby village of New Meissen. From there he would resupply for the journey to the castle, and hope that the owner would permit him entrance to see—

“Master Xavier.” Erik’s voice pulled Charles from his musings, and he was embarrassed to realize that his name had been called more than once. “What are your plans now that you’ve completed your search of these grounds?”  

He chuckled. “I don’t suppose you know where I could find some werewolves to study?”

“There are no werewolves around here,” Erik snapped, and Charles instantly regretted his poor choice of words. “I have spent all my life hunting them and ridding them from these lands. You would do well to stay away from such vile beasts, for I would loathe to see you come to harm.”

The last of Erik’s words were said with such impassioned fervor that Charles immediately sought to placate him. “Please, my friend; that was merely a poor jest on my part. I plan to travel next to the Castle _Schwarzkron_ to continue my search. My sister Raven, she too was seeking tales of the fantastic. Perhaps I’ll have better luck tracking her there.”

“You…Schwarzkron?” Erik breathed, surprise coloring his expression as he stared. Charles did not understand the reaction, not until the man smiled once more and shook his head. “Truly, the coincidences are many tonight. For you see, _I_ am the master of Schwarzkron Castle, and it would be my pleasure to have you visit my home.”

“ _You_? But the townspeople, they said a mons—” Charles exclaimed, before he slammed his mouth shut with a grimace, cursing himself for his carelessness. “I’m sorry, I—”

Erik grinned. “The townspeople told you a monster lived at the Castle, yes? Come now, I have heard it all; the Devil who lives up on the hill. The one who steals children from their cribs and never ages? Tell me, Charles…do I look like a monster to you?”

“Of course not!” he replied, chuckling at the absurdity of it all; perhaps Logan had been right after all, not to believe all the tall tales he heard in the tavern, shared by old men over too much ale. “It is good that you are not offended by the superstitions of simple merchants and farm folk! You have been most kind and helpful to me, and the most _unlike_ a monster I’ve ever seen!”

“Have you met many monsters then?” Erik teased, making Charles laugh at his own words. “Would you know if you saw one with your own eyes?”

Charles scoffed good-naturedly. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Lehnsherr, that I am a very good judge of character.”

“Indeed,” Erik agreed, gallantly placing a soft kiss on the back of Charles’s hand, sending a pleased shiver down his spine. “Well now that we have made things clear, I should like to extend you an official invitation. Come and visit me at Schwarzkron and be my honored guest. Will you accept?”

Charles smiled and squeezed Erik’s hand. “I accept.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's a long time between chapters isn't it - so sorry! Hopefully, this will kick start our juices for this story again...we have creepy plans for Charles when he visits Erik at the castle!


End file.
